In Sickness and…
by S. Faith
Summary: Another near future post Thailand story set after EOR. The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, this time, a reunion minibreak. M for language and adult themes. If there was a T plus I would have rated it that instead.
1. Part 1

**In Sickness and…**

© by S. Faith '06-'07

Yet another speculation on a possible (near) future post-Thailand in _EOR_. I will only say that I tried very, _very_ hard to not make this a giant cliché—I hope I succeeded. Please let me know if it didn't, and why.

Word Count: 33,400 in total (according to MS Word)  
Rated: T/ M (for language and adult situations)  
Note: While never as bad as, say, "ER", this story gets a little… medically-detailed at times. If that squicks you, hie thee away.   
Special thanks to: Carly, who let the plotbunny loose on me in the first place, and who is practically a co-author. Mille grazie.  
Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

* * *

Part 1 

Friday

He kept asking her if she was all right.

She knew it was simply out of concern for her headache the entire drive from London to Wellesbourne. The pain had started to creep into her head as they crossed the outermost periphery of the city, and Bridget Jones had initially wondered if somehow her body was in some sort of withdrawal due to a lack of metropolitan pollutants. The return of her fingertips to her forehead again and again necessitated the first concerned query from Mark Darcy, but she dug out an ibuprofen tablet from her handbag, washed them down with some of the water in her bottle, smiled, and proclaimed she was fine.

Bridget wrote off the recurring nausea as nothing more than carsickness from the two-hour-plus drive. He asked about that as well when she wrapped her arms about her midsection several times, but she waved it off. Her back and calves were aching too, but she chalked it up to not being able to properly stretch during the length of the drive despite the roominess of his luxury car. In an effort not to draw more concern for no reason, she didn't think it important enough to mention.

He interrupted a mini-rant about her boss Richard Finch to point to a stately edifice at the end of the country road they were presently navigating just outside of Wellesbourne. When he told her this manor house was the one they were to stay in for the weekend it literally took her breath away, and her prior physical discomfort was consigned to oblivion. It was delightful, a purely perfect slice of English countryside lifted out of a period Merchant Ivory film, a fitting locale to host a getaway to celebrate not only a reunion but an engagement, complete with manicured grounds, moss-covered statues, leaded glass windows, draperies and wainscoting. And, she recalled from Mark's enumerated list of selling points, there was an on-site spa pool, steam room, sauna and salon.

After check-in, they and their things were brought to their room. Their suite was incredibly luxurious: a king-sized bed, a view of the lake, a private bath, very soft looking linens, and room service. The latter two were very important to Bridget, as she had a very strong feeling (if she had anything to say about it) they might be spending a great deal of time ensconced in linens and utilising room service. Bridget wanted desperately to make up for lost time now that she was back with Mark, and she hadn't been able to do much of that because he'd been so busy she'd barely seen him. He had so much catching up to do in the two weeks since she'd returned from Thai prison as a result of his globe-hopping, and she was so grateful to him for his hard work that she felt she had little room to complain… except that she did miss having him back in her bed. Terribly. Achingly.

But Bridget had more than just loads of shagging in mind—this was going to be a chance to really reconnect after the weeks they were separated. After their time apart, and especially after her experience in Thailand, she felt like a whole new person—responsible, poised, sensible—and she was determined to prove to Mark that she was a changed woman ready to handle their relationship like a mature adult.

As Bridget bounced playfully onto the bed to test its softness, Mark suggested an early supper in the glorious dining room. She agreed wholeheartedly, even though she wasn't feeling particularly hungry. He thought they should dress up for dinner—insisting of course that she looked beautiful just as she was but that dressing up would lend a certain sense of occasion—and with a smile she chose a pretty printed cotton summer dress and low white heels. When she emerged from the bathroom his face lit up with an appreciative smile, and, after kissing her, he extended his elbow to her to escort her to the dining hall.

They were finished with dinner and were waiting for the dessert tray to be brought around when the all-but-forgotten nausea returned to an extent that Bridget had to dash for the loo, aching calves and all—and thank God she located it in time, because the entirety of her gourmet meal came back to haunt her.

She cleaned up at the sink and looked at herself, feeling dreadfully embarrassed. She was there with the handsomest man on site and now she looked a perfect fright after losing her dinner: hair wild, face blotchy, eyes red. She dabbed at her mouth with a damp towel, patted at her face with powder from her compact, popped a breath mint into her mouth and reapplied some of her tinted lip gloss. Not perfect, she decided, but definitely better.

As she emerged from the ladies' room, she nearly walked into Mark, who had come to meet her outside the door. He took her by the waist and quietly asked close to her ear, "Bridget. Are you feeling all right?"

"Hm, yes, I'm fine," she said, combing her hair back with her fingers and cursing her unruly hair as it fell upon her cheek again. "I think I must have just eaten too much or too quickly, or had too much wine on an empty stomach. I'll be fine."

"If you say so." He brushed her hair from her face and held it back, then drew his brows together, releasing it. Raising the backs of his fingers to her forehead, he declared, "You feel a bit warm."

"I've just been retching into the loo. I'm sure I've worked up a sweat. Can we just go back to the room?" she asked, her tone a bit more defensive than she intended; she loved this man but sometimes he really was just the biggest mother hen.

Mark studied her more closely. "Have you been crying?"

"Why on earth should I be crying? I am the happiest woman in England right now." She reached up and kissed him.

He smiled one of his trademark patient smiles. "And I am quite possibly the happiest man. The only reason I asked was because of your eyes. They look a bit red."

"Probably from the puking."

He studied her closely. "If you're sure you're all right… would you like to take a walk on the grounds instead of retiring so early? It's a beautiful evening."

She beamed a smile, taking his proffered elbow once more, feeling for all the world like the mistress of Pemberley. "I would love to."

………

"Bridget. Bridget!"

It was Mark's voice, desperate and scared.

She opened her eyes and slowly her surroundings came into focus, but the location was all wrong. She was no longer strolling amongst the sun-dappled trees on a stone path; she was lying on the bed in their room and Mark was hovering very close to her. She tried to lift up her head but the world moved ninety degrees to the left, so she dropped back to the pillow.

"Thank God," muttered Mark, sitting upright, drawing his fingers across his forehead worriedly. She realised he looked terribly shaken.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice a mere croak.

He frowned, drawing his brows together. "You started acting very strangely out on the path, almost like you were drunk, so I brought you back here, got you to lay down, and you kind of came in and out of consciousness." He replaced the cool cloth on her forehead, then touched his hand to her cheek. "Darling, you are burning up. Why didn't you just say you were sick? We could have rescheduled."

She recalled the headache. At first it had felt like an average, run-of-the-mill tension headache, only it had gotten worse and the ibuprofen had done little to help. Then she thought about the nausea, which she realised upon reflection had been steadily building since their departure from London, and was the reason why she hadn't been hungry even though she hadn't eaten all day. Her eyes were feeling irritated and tired, but she thought it must have been fatigue, her body still readjusting to Greenwich Mean Time. And she did, in fact, feel weak and woozy and much better lying flat on the bed.

No. She couldn't, just couldn't be sick. Not for a mini-break!

It was, however, becoming more difficult to deny.

"Did you think I would be angry if you needed to cancel for being sick?" he continued. He was clearly trying very hard to reign in his irritation.

She pushed herself up on her elbows to emphasise her point: "Mark, I _swear_ I didn't feel like this when we left this morning. I'm _really_ sorry—I don't know what's wrong with me. Hopefully it will pass, and I'll be right as rain in the morning."

His temper seemed mollified and he reverted to mother hen mode. "You were just in a prison in Thailand; I'm not taking any chances."

"What do you mean?"

"A mate of mine from Cambridge practises out of Stratford Hospital. I've rung him up and he should be here soon. I've told him where you'd been, described your symptoms and he's got his suspicions as to what it might be."

"Why not just take me to his hospital?"

"I really would rather not put you in a car with the way you've been vomiting—"

"_Vomiting?_"

He blinked. "Three more times. You don't remember?"

Bridget shook her head.

"I've tried giving you ibuprofen to help with the fever but, well, they aren't staying down."

She felt like crying; her perfect little mini-break weekend with her perfect fiancé was shot to tatters.

He stroked her forehead before replacing the cool cloth once more. "The hotel staff were able to find a set of flannel pyjamas for you as you hadn't brought anything… _suitable_ for convalescence." She swore he was smiling.

"I'm glad you're amused," she said petulantly.

He continued to look at her and she was immediately regretful for snapping at him. "I've really been looking forward to this too, and I'm very sorry you're ill, believe me." He went silent and looked at her a few moments more before he continued. "Well. Let's get you into the pyjamas so that when Hugh arrives he can take a look at you."

She sat up, fighting back the vertigo, and pushed back the sheets to find Mark had stripped her of her clothing. She could not hold back the tears any longer; Mark embraced her and held her close.

"I wanted to be naked and in your arms, but not like this," she said between sobs. She could only imagine what kind of struggle that had been for him, to undress her while she was loopy and feverish.

He ran his fingers gently along her back. "We'll get a proper reunion, I promise you," he whispered softly.

She was suddenly mindful of how close he was, and pushed on his forearms. "Oh God, Mark," she said as strongly as she could manage, "you should get away from me—I don't want to give you what I've got."

He pulled back, but not to flee from her, only to walk to the bureau to grab the pyjamas. "Bridget, if you picked up a bug in Thailand and you're infectious, I probably already have what you have," he said matter-of-factly. She realised he was probably right. They had spent the first night after the Peruvian conference madly shagging like rabbits before he'd had to return to working so hard. The memory of that night made her smile, but also made her sad, because it was unlikely any shagging would occur during this trip unless this Dr Hugh fellow had some sort of miracle cure-all.

He held up the ugliest set of men's blue-grey flannel pyjamas she'd ever seen. Even in her state she must have made a disapproving face, for he smiled and said, trailing off, "It's either this or the black lace camisole, and, well, I know which of the two _I_ prefer, but…."

"I know," she said with a pout. He helped her to thread her hands through the arm holes, then buttoned up the top. He then held the legs of the pyjama bottoms up for her to poke her feet through, and she arched her bottom up so that he could settle the elastic at her waist. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table and bade her drink from it.

"There you are, love," he said gently as he pulled the truly decadent linens up to her chin.

"Who'd have thought you'd be putting old man pyjamas _on_ me and tucking me beneath the covers this evening?" she asked sadly.

He chuckled and kissed her forehead.

………

Bridget must have fallen back to sleep for when she next opened her eyes it was to the sound of Mark speaking, and another male's voice she didn't recognise replying. She turned her head, which caught the attention of the stranger. He was about as tall as Mark and probably just as old, with short, curly, greying light brown hair. The visitor smiled. "Looks like the patient is awake."

She managed a smile in return.

"I'm Hugh Carri, I'm a doctor, and I'm a friend of Mark's."

"He told me you were coming. Thank you so much; it's so late, Dr Carri." Honestly, she had no idea what time it was, but it must have been late.

"Please, it's Hugh. And it was the least I could do—Mark saved my bacon during my divorce. So." He grabbed a small black medic bag that he must have brought with him, and took a seat beside her on the bed, fishing instruments out of the bag's depths. "Let's see what's going on."

He looked into ears, listened to her heart and lungs and took her temperature—indeed feverish (almost thirty eight degrees Celsius) but not dangerously so. He also seemed to take a long time studying her eyes.

"How long since you last vomited?"

Bridget turned to Mark, as she had no idea. Mark supplied, "About an hour ago."

"Have you been drinking water?"

She nodded. A half glass, at the very least, so it wasn't entirely a lie.

"Good. You have to keep taking in fluids." He paused. "Mark tells me you were in Thailand?"

"Yes. I got back about a fortnight ago."

He nodded. "And I understand you were in prison there."

She was deeply embarrassed. "Yes."

"I'm not passing judgment, it just helps me to understand your circumstances and weigh the options, as far as what you might have." He smiled again, his blue-grey eyes crinkling; he really had a very kind bedside manner. "Is there anything else you can think of that I should know about?"

She suddenly remembered the muscle aches in her legs and back, realised they hadn't gone away. She told him.

"No diarrhoea? No unexplained bruising?"

"_God_ no."

"Good, good. And no petechiae." As he reached into his bag again, he said more to himself than anyone, "Classic symptoms."

"Of what?" she asked, alarmed.

He pulled out, much to her horror, a syringe. "Leptospirosis," he said. "There's a special test for it, so I'll need to take a blood sample and run it through the lab to verify before we can get you started on the course of antibiotics."

"Blood sample?" she said shakily.

"I know you hate needles, Bridget," Mark said, "but we must know for sure."

She looked to Mark. He nodded reassuringly, looked relieved. Clearly the doctor had given Mark some possibilities and she hoped this meant it was the lesser of possible evils. She was so distracted by thoughts of Mark's mind being eased that when Hugh gently took her arm and drew a sample of blood she didn't realise he'd done so until the fine needle was being withdrawn.

"Excellent, Bridget. You did great." He capped the needle and placed it into a biohazard pouch. "I'll get this over to get it tested and we should know by morning if my suspicions are correct. You don't have any allergies to antibiotics, do you?"

"No."

"Are you—" He glanced to Mark fleetingly. "—pregnant?"

"No."

"Okay. Good to know. I've given Mark a thermometer to monitor your temperature. I'll call—"

Nausea roiled up in her and she realised she imminently needed to vacate the bed. "Mark? Loo. Now."

He jumped to his feet and practically carried her to the bathroom, where she did indeed vomit profusely into the toilet. How had he managed to get her to have perfect aim the past few times? And where was all of this stuff coming from?

As she resumed her place in the bed, she said, "I'm very sorry, Doctor. You were saying?"

Hugh smiled. "It's Hugh, Bridget, and it's all right. Perfectly understandable. I was saying I'll call in the morning with the results and we can take it from there."

Mark interjected, "If there are any outstanding costs for this, you are to bill me."

"Aye-aye, Captain," he said with a grin, saluting his friend. Hugh turned to Bridget. "Well, Bridget, it was very nice to meet you. I only wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances."

She smiled. "Nice to meet you too. And ditto."

He turned back to Mark. "I'd ask you down for a pint in the pub but… well…." He grinned, looking back momentarily to Bridget. She felt terrible, chaining Mark to her side like this.

Mark took his hand and shook vigourously. "I can't thank you enough, mate."

"Well, like I said, you came through for me when I needed it." He picked up his bag and headed for the door. "I'll speak to you in the morning. Goodbye."

With that, the good doctor left.

"What was all that about?"

"All what?"

"'Aye-aye, Captain'?" She mimed the salute.

He covered his face with his hand, obviously mortified, but he was still smiling. Clearly keen to change the subject, he said, "Well, if Hugh's right, least we know I'm not infected."

She laid back down to the pillow, loved the coolness of it against her cheek. "How do we know that?"

"He told me earlier that leptospirosis is only transmittable through contaminated food or water, not human to human contact."

Mark and his friend must have had quite a lengthy phone conversation. "Contaminated with what?"

"What do you think?" he asked darkly as he unbuttoned his dress shirt.

Bridget pondered. "Ew."

She watched as he unfastened his trousers and removed them, and she felt a renewed fury at whatever had made her ill.

"Try not to think about it."

"Believe me," she sighed, staring at his boxer-clad bottom, "I'm trying."

He switched off the light then slipped into the bed beside her, spooning up against her back. She didn't realise how chilled she felt until she had his warmth against her. "If you need anything, you tell me."

"If I need anything, you'll probably already have it waiting for me."

He raised himself up and kissed her on her temple.

As he settled behind her, she said, "Mark?"

"Yes, Bridget?"

"I'll get the story out of you some day."

She felt him silently chuckle. "I know you will."

………

Saturday

When Bridget next awoke, it was plainly still the middle of the night, judging from the darkness in the room and the night sky peeking through between the panes of the drapes. She threw back the sheets and reveled in the feel of the cool air on her skin. Yes. Yes! She was well, the doctor was wrong, her fever had broken, and she would get to spent the next two days doing all manner of naughty things to the delightful, delicious Mark Darcy. She turned over and snuggled up to his back, running a hand along his exposed shoulder. She heard a cross yet playful voice address her: "Give it a rest, will you?"

She recoiled away from the figure in fright. That wasn't Mark's voice. It was— no. It was not possible.

Timidly she asked, "Who is that?"

He laughed—she knew that laugh; it was not Mark's laugh—and said, "It's me, you silly cow."

He turned over, raising himself up on one elbow, and oh God. It _was_ him.

It was Daniel.

She scuttled backwards so quickly she nearly fell out of bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Who else would be here, Jones?" The moonlight tinted his blondish brown hair quite artfully as he grinned at her, very plainly amused.

"Where—where's Mark?"

"That stick in the mud? Why would you want _him_ here?" As an afterthought, he added, "He'd never go for it, anyway." He sat up, stretched his arms apart. "Come now, we reconciled in Thailand and we're having a rest between shags, you little minx." He waggled his eyebrows playfully. "I presume you're ready for another go?"

"_No!_" she shouted. "As you can see I'm wearing—" She looked down. Jesus. The flannels were gone and she was wearing nothing at all. She covered up her nakedness.

Decisively he finished her sentence: "My favourite outfit: your birthday suit."

"No. No!" she said, the volume of her voice escalating. "I am not here with _you_! I want to know where Mark is! What have you done with him?"

"You know where he is, Bridget." Daniel reached for her.

Once more she backed away, perilously close to the edge of the bed. "Tell me where Mark is! Get away from me!"

"You know bloody well he joined Her Majesty's Navy. Captain now, I hear tell."

"No! Mark has _not_ joined the Navy! You're wrong! I want Mark!" She turned over to flee the bed but he was too quick for her; he encircled her waist with his arms in a vise-like grip.

"Bridget. Bridget!"

"Get away from me! Get _away_! I want Mark!"

"_Bridget!_ It _is_ Mark!"

As if hit with a tranquiliser dart, she stopped struggling, blinked a few times, and turned to look at him. Sure enough, it was Mark, brown hair, chestnut eyes and all, looking quite alarmed. "Mark?" she asked. She had to be one hundred percent sure.

"Yes," he said firmly, fixing her eyes with his. He looked slightly less unsettled, obviously realising she was returning from a fuzzy between-realities state.

She raised her hand to her forehead to brush back her sopping wet hair, found her pyjamas were stuck to her skin as if she had been doused with a bucket of water. "Oh God." She turned into his embrace, panting into his shoulder. She was not naked, in bed and reconciled with Daniel after all. But that also meant she was not well.

"I think you were hallucinating, or at least dreaming quite vividly." He placed his fingers to his eyes, pressing gently, and she felt terrible for the state she'd put him into. "We've got to do something to bring down your fever. How's your stomach? Do you think you could take a fever reducer?"

"The thought of taking anything right now makes me want to puke," she admitted.

He sighed. "I think I ought to run you a cool bath."

She nodded.

There was a light rap upon the door. Mark grabbed a courtesy robe from the bathroom door and answered it. She could not hear the conversation, but judging from Mark's side, it was a concerned employee of the hotel. An unfamiliar young man dressed in bellboy livery peeked in momentarily before retreating, confirming her suspicions and probably dispelling his. Mark then nodded, backed into the room, and closed the door.

"That young man heard the shouting and was concerned. I explained you're ill and that we have consulted a doctor. He's going to bring a bucket in case we have an… emergency."

She barely heard him because she had begun crying again; it was just her luck to not only fall horribly ill during a dream mini-break weekend, but then hallucinate about her fuckwit ex.

"Oh, darling Bridget," he said softly, taking his place beside her, embracing her. It was as close as he'd ever gotten to a pet name; her heart fluttered with happiness every single time he said it. "I'll run you a cool bath and keep you company."

"Mark, it's the middle of the night. You should get some sleep. Just give me back that flannel for my forehead and—"

"Nonsense." He pulled back, looking fatigued beyond all reason, yet still managed a smirk. "You must be unwell if you're so bloody determined not to be treated like you are. Besides. I want to hear why you insisted that I had not in fact joined the Navy." He kissed her cheek, then rose and headed for the loo. She heard the tap come on and he came to fetch her. "So. What were you seeing?"

She closed her eyes, feeling woozy as he helped her stand, wanting for all the world to avoid telling him exactly who her sick mind had replaced him with. "What was I saying to you?"

He supported her around the waist as he led her to the bathroom. "Gibberish—that you were _not_ here with me, to get away from you, but that you wanted me. What _were_ you seeing?"

As he unbuttoned her flannels, she said ruefully, "It was nightmarish—I was seeing Daniel Cleaver."

He stopped mid-unbutton and looked up to her. "What?"

"I started kicking and screaming when I thought you were him."

To her relief he smiled, continuing to help her out of her damp nightclothes. "Ah. That's what that was all about."

"He told me you weren't there because you had gone to join the Navy."

"Why the—Oh. Hugh earlier."

He helped her into the bathtub. With the way her muscles ached she wished very much that it was a steaming hot bath, but the tepid water nonetheless felt heavenly swirling about her body. She laid back along the angled end of the bathtub as the water crept up around her shoulders. He reached up and shut off the tap, taking a seat upon the edge of the bathtub.

"How does that feel?"

"A little colder than I typically like my baths to be, but not bad."

"You're cracking jokes. That's good."

She closed her eyes, felt him stroking the hair at her forehead.

She said, "You could amuse me and tell me why he called you 'Captain'."

When he didn't reply right away, she opened her eyes to see he'd furrowed his brow. "I think I hear someone at the door." He stood and headed for the main room.

"Chicken."

Pausing at the threshold, he turned to look at her. "I'm being serious, Bridget. It's probably your bucket." He strode out, calling back over his shoulder, "Don't go sinking under and drowning before I get back, all right?"

"I'll do my best."

………

Quiet voices were what awoke her again. She was back in bed once more, and judging from the sunlight streaming in through the windows, it was morning. She raised up her head and saw Mark quietly conferring with his friend Hugh.

"Mark?" she croaked, her throat unexpectedly dry.

She was almost sure he couldn't have heard her, but he did, and he turned to the bed. Her heart broke. He looked dreadful: wan skin, dark smudges under his eyes, unkempt hair and badly in need of a shave. He must have been up all night caring for her. He came to her and sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his, a distinct air of relief about him. Perhaps it was just the flu, after all.

"We meet again," said Hugh, striding nearer as well, plucking his carrier bag from the desktop by the window. "So I was just telling Mark the good news. It _is_ leptospirosis."

Bridget blurted, furrowing her brows, "How is that good news?"

Hugh grinned. "It isn't something worse, and believe me, there's much worse. It's fairly straightforward to treat, comparatively speaking. If you start immediately, you should be well in about a week. I've written you a prescription and brought what you'll need."

She could see now why Mark looked so relieved. "Dr… um, Hugh, you're a wonder."

He smiled, pulling a white paper bag out of his medic bag, setting it down on the bedside table. "You may not think so once you see what it's going to take for you to get well. I've just been explaining to Mark how to administer your… treatment." His pause was a loaded one, and it filled her with apprehension.

She looked over to Mark. His expression remained mostly unchanged, which reassured her, and he even nodded.

She directed her gaze back to the doctor. "What is the… treatment?" she asked glumly.

"Doxycycline, which is an antibiotic, as well as glutamine supplements."

That was it? It really didn't sound so bad. She'd had strep throat as a teen and it was no big deal—a few big horse pills a day. "Excellent. No problem." She smiled.

The doctor continued: "Because of the nausea, the antibiotics must be given intramuscularly."

At her assured look of incomprehension, Mark explained, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, "I have to give you injections with a hypodermic needle."

"Ohh." She felt herself brim with irrational terror, which she was sure flashed in her eyes, because Mark squeezed the hand he held.

"Unfortunately there is no other way," Hugh advised; "I'm sorry. I've filled Mark in on your medication schedule." He consulted his watch, then continued, "It's nearly eight in the morning. I recommend the first dose at about that time; it will help you to keep track of things more easily and then you won't be taking your last dose of the day too late. Well. I must be off—have an appointment in less than an hour." He turned to his friend with an outstretched hand, which Mark took and shook firmly. "Mark, any questions, call my mobile day or night."

"Absolutely. Thank you again."

After tipping a nonexistent hat in Bridget's direction, Hugh showed himself out.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed to Bridget that Hugh had the air about him of a man running for his life. Bridget could not exactly figure out why but didn't have much time to contemplate it—another wave of nausea overtook her very suddenly. She clamped a hand over her mouth and it was all she had to do or say because in an instant Mark was clamouring for the bucket at her bedside. For the time being she didn't care about anything but hitting the inside of the white plastic container.

After she was finished, Mark took away the bucket to empty and rinse it. He brought back a damp washcloth from the bathroom and patted at her cheeks and mouth before taking her in his arms and holding her again. Her body shook with residual muscular spasms, and she took in great heaving breaths. Mark tried to comfort her as best he could, holding her close until she quieted. He really was the very best of men.

But then he pulled back, cupping her face in his palm. "We should get you started so you can get well."

She sighed; it was a pitiful sound due to her dry throat. A slight panic began welling up within her. As much as she wanted to be well, she dreaded the shots with a passion. "Mark," she said in a rather pathetic tone, "does it really have to be shots? Surely modern medicine has come up with some alternative to… medieval torture."

"This is not—" Mark seemed to fumble for a suitable futuristic science-fiction scenario. "—_Star Trek_." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "If not for the vomiting you could take an oral dosage. But look how successful we were in keeping an ibuprofen down. Hugh would not have me give you a shot unless he thought it absolutely vital."

She hardly had a fight in her, but surely he knew how much she hated needles. Surely! A compromise was in order. "Couldn't we wait until the vomiting stops, and then I could take pills? It can't possibly last much longer, right?"

He was silent for a moment, looking away, as if weighing his options. Finally, he turned his unblinking eyes back to her and said in a very soft, serious tone, "Bridget, the vomiting will not stop on its own. And if this infection progresses you run the risk of jaundice, serious liver and kidney damage, meningitis and internal bleeding. Worst case scenario, permanent organ damage, hospitalisation and death."

"Oh." She suddenly realised that most of his weariness may not have had anything to do with staying up doctoring her all night.

His tone still quiet, he said, "So I think you can handle a needle prick twice a day for a week, can't you?"

Bridget nodded, blinking back tears, resolved to her fate as a pincushion.

He smiled, stroking her cheek again with his fingertips. "That's my girl." He reached for the paper bag, removing a sealed plastic bag of pre-measured, capped hypodermics and some alcohol pads. "Hugh told me the best injection site would be the _gluteus maximus_."

"Where?"

He pursed his lips. "Your arse."

"Oh." No wonder Hugh had fled for the hills—he was a doctor and he dealt with this sort of thing all the time, but this was his mate's girl, and he probably didn't want to embarrass Mark. It was then she realised that Hugh had never mentioned anything about the glutamine. She reasoned it was probably something like a sports drink. "What about the other thing, the glutamine? What _is_ glutamine?"

"Hugh told me it's an amino acid complex that helps replace what you're losing by vomiting. And to keep your intestinal flora on an even keel, with the antibiotics and all. However, it is also… not oral," said Mark darkly.

Great. More injections.

Mark must have known what she was thinking. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

"Then how—?" But before she could even finish her thought, she knew. There was only one other possibility, one that was very common for taking her temperature when she was a child. She felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh, _God_… no."

"Unfortunately… yes," Mark said.

Things couldn't get worse. Puking, hallucinatory fever dreams, being stuck with needles, and now _suppositories_? This was indescribable torment, pure and simple. God clearly did not want her to be happy.

Mark looked as if he had bad news yet to deliver. He took in a steadying breath, and, hypo and alcohol pad in hand, sat beside her again, resting them by his thigh. "I'll warn you now. He says the suppositories have a tendency to… well, not to put too fine a point on it, _burn_ and the body tends to want to eject them. So they have to be, um, held into place for up to five minutes."

She smirked. "Very funny, doctor."

The stony seriousness of his face told her he was not joking, and her jaunty smile soon disappeared.

That was the problem, she thought, with declaring that things couldn't possibly get worse: it usually meant they immediately did. And this was definitely worse.

She must have looked either on the verge of crying again, or possibly in contemplation of hurling herself off of a tall building, because he took her hand and said in the gentlest tone he could manage, "Bridget, I can't tell you how ecstatic I am that it's not something more serious, and when you're well, I swear, I _will_ make it up to you. But for now, you have to have your antibiotic shot."

"Yes. Twice a day for a week. And how about…" She jerked her head back and to the side, indicating the point of entry for the glutamine capsules.

"One every four hours during the day." He bent forward and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Believe me, I'm hardly going to enjoy myself doing either of these tasks."

"I know," she said sulkily, sighed, then added, "but if anyone's going to stick me with a needle or shove a pill where the sun doesn't shine, I suppose I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

He actually chuckled. "It _must_ be love. Now come on, stubborn girl."

With that she sighed, laid down flat on the bed, yanked her pyjama bottoms down over her arse and kicked them off, then rolled onto her stomach, resting her face on her pillow once more. "Let's get this over with."

Gently he ran his fingers over her backside; she thought he was merely being tender until she realised he was actually looking for the ideal injection site. His fingers came away and she heard the paper-covered foil wrapper of the alcohol pad being torn open, felt the coolness of the sterilising liquid against her skin.

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

She heard him chuckle. "I meant are you on the verge of vomiting again."

"Not at the moment."

"Good. Hold still."

She was about to make a joke about precisely how white her knuckles were gripping the duvet when she felt the needle pierce her skin, the (she swore she could feel it) hot flood of antibiotic going into her tissue, and just as quickly the needle was gone, replaced again by the cool alcohol pad.

"There. Not so bad, was it."

It actually wasn't. She turned her head to see that he was holding the pad firmly against her. He lifted his gaze to her and smiled, and even through the exhaustion and the concern, she could tell he was proud of her, and she smiled in return. He took his hand away, reached into the white paper bag for a small red sharps container, recapped the used hypo and placed both it and the alcohol pad inside before setting it aside.

To her surprise, he reclined beside her against the headboard with the pillows cushioning his back, pulling her onto his chest, stretching his legs out in front of him. She looked to him, truly shocked. "What about… the other thing?"

"I'm resting before the big fight."

"Ha, ha," she said sullenly.

He closed his eyes, his head falling back to touch the headboard. "I'd like to hold you in my arms for a few moments while you're not post-retch, trembling and gasping for air. It's deeply unnerving," he admitted.

She rested her head on his shirt. She knew he didn't mean to make her feel guilty, but she felt that way all the same. First pulling every favour he was ever owed to get her out of prison, and now this. In a meek voice she said, "I'm sorry I'm so much bother."

He held her tightly for a moment, then kissed the crown of her head. He stroked her hair until his hand went still, and she was convinced he'd drifted off to sleep until he spoke in a voice that revealed precisely how knackered he was. "Darling, you are not a bother. The illness is a bloody inconvenience, to be sure, but it wasn't anything within your control. And were our positions reversed, I know you'd do the same for me."

"I would be a catastrophe giving you a shot."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes," she admitted.

They were silent a few moments more, and for that stretch of time Bridget forgot that she was ill with a weird tropical disease, puking on a semi-regular basis, with a dose of antibiotic in her bum and something almost worse in her future. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and was immensely grateful for the man whose arms were encircling her.

"If you must apologise for something," Mark said after a few, "apologise for the appalling conditions in the Thai prison, as that is likely where you were infected."

"Okay. I'm sorry they kept me in such a shithole."

He laughed. Even through all this he could still laugh.

She lifted her face to his again, suddenly feeling the need for absolution for a multitude of sins. "I'm sorry for chucking you, I'm sorry for Thailand and Fucking Jed—and I'm especially sorry for Daniel, for you thinking—"

He lifted a finger to her lips. "Shhh. Don't rile yourself." He then lowered his head to kiss her, pulling away much too soon, as if the heat of her skin reminded him of his current mission, like maybe he had also forgotten about her disease for a moment. He sat up, eyeing the white paper bag filled with pharmaceuticals. "Well. Let's get this over with."

Gently he rose out from under her, and she braced herself by wrapping her arms around her pillow and burying her face in it.

"Bridget," came his quiet yet authoritative voice, "there's a better way to do this." She looked up to see he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed. "If you lie across my lap, that should make this whole process much easier."

She did as he suggested, muttering, "This is so… humiliating. I feel like I'm four."

"It's only me, love." He surprised her by leaning over her and placing a kiss on the opposite side of her rear from where he'd just injected her. She felt herself flush from head to toe—perhaps it was just the fever. "Just relax."

She hadn't quite realised how tense she'd gone and consciously willed the muscles of her body to loosen. "Good," he commented. She heard the rustling of the paper bag and then the sound of a foil bubble being burst. Then—nothing.

As if sensing her confusion, he explained, "I'm just going to hold this in my hand for a moment to warm it up. Then once it's in I'll have to hold it in place."

She croaked out a woeful-sounding, "You needn't remind me."

She heard him take in and release a steadying breath. "All right. I'm ready, I've got my eye on the clock. Just stay relaxed." She felt his hands on her rear.

"Mark?" she asked abruptly. "Is it big?"

"Not any bigger than a normal tablet. Do you want to see it?"

"No." She released a breath she didn't realise she was holding in. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready."

Trying to stay relaxed as his hands grasped her bottom, she closed her eyes, and imagined that she was anywhere else and in any position other than the one she currently was in. Then suddenly she felt him pushing it in as gently as possible (thanking the heavens for his slender fingers), but even still she could not refrain from gasping. She reminded herself that staying slack would ease the process, and she tried to think of good things, joyful things, like the looks he gave her that were filled with such unbridled adoration, the way he kissed her and touched her, how magnificent it felt to be with him just before he shuddered and went still—

That was when the burning started, and it jerked her from her shag flashback with the fury of a lightning bolt. She must have made a distressed noise and tensed up, because with his free hand he stroked the small of her back, whispering words of comfort. She tried to recall the happy place she'd been to moments before—calling up memories of him admitting he liked her as she was, of turning to see him crossing the snowy street when she thought he'd gone off to New York, his declaration that he had a high regard for her wobbly bits—but even still it was the longest five minutes of her life. When the burning finally started to subside, she exhaled slowly, and without any words he slipped out from under her, pulled the duvet over her, explaining, "Stretch yourself out, lie on your stomach. I'll come right back after I use the sink to wash up." She nodded, embracing her pillow.

When he returned he first made a hushed call from the hotel telephone, then slipped under the duvet with her, wrapping his arm around her. "I'm sorry," he murmured in her ear.

She turned her head to look at him. "That was horrible," she said in a shaky voice, "but I hardly blame you."

"I know, but I'm sorry all the same. Especially since we'll have to do it again in four hours."

She shuddered. He squeezed his arm more tightly around her.

"Who did you call?"

"The front desk. Asking them to ring us at eleven forty-five. Because I was thinking we should try to sleep," he said with a yawn. "You know, take advantage of the no-vomiting stretch."

She could only murmur a "Mmm." She was already drifting off.

………


	2. Part 2

**In Sickness and…**

© by S. Faith '06-'07

Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

* * *

Part 2

The telephone ringing caused her to startle awake. She turned over to find Mark was not beside her, but already at the phone to answer it. It was a quick call; he hung up within ten seconds. Probably the wake up call.

She raised her aching head—not daring to imagine what her hair looked like—to see that Mark had already been up and around, and had been in the process of eating a sandwich and chips. He came to her side and kissed her forehead. "Did you sleep comfortably?"

"Like a baby," she said groggily. "What about you?"

"I slept for a couple of hours but woke because my stomach was protesting the lack of food. I didn't figure you were up to eating anything solid so I only got you an orange juice."

Funny how she wasn't hungry in the least, but was parched beyond words. "That sounds very good."

He smiled. He still looked tired, but not nearly as wrecked as he had earlier. "I'm glad to hear you say that. You need to keep drinking fluids." He went to fetch her the glass of juice.

The way he said it reminded her of his friend Hugh's exact recommendation, and she said, "Yes, Doctor." She took a long sip, felt the cool liquid blazing a trail to her stomach. Feeling slightly playful—a good sign, surely—she added, "Or should I say 'Captain'?"

He turned his eyes back to her. "Keep that up and I'll bend you over my knee." He was grinning though. Definitely a good sign. "As a matter of fact, I think I ought to, this very moment."

"Considering it's time for another… _you-know_…" she began morosely.

"That it is." He retrieved what he needed for another dose and sat upon the bed, patting his lap.

"I am not a puppy," she said crossly.

"Of course not," he said in a very conciliatory tone. "And I know you don't want me to do this again—God knows I don't want to do it again—but I'm afraid it's absolutely necessary."

"If you say 'this'll hurt me more than it'll hurt you', I'll pop you in the eye," she said, her voice a little more whiny than she meant it to be, but still not budging.

"Come on, love. Don't make me wrestle you down."

She sighed. "All right, fine." She slithered into place over his lap, adding with a smile he probably couldn't even see, "We can save the wrestling-down for when I'm well."

Mark cleared his throat, and she was immediately regretful for making such a provocative statement. He had clearly come with the expectation of a shag-filled weekend as well, must have been equally as disappointed as she.

"Sorry," she added. He spoke no reply, simply stroked the small of her back.

After the telltale sounds of the capsule being released from its bubble pack, he slid his hand over the curve of her behind. "Relax, love. Just relax."

Dose two was duly administered; at least this time she knew what to expect and it wasn't nearly as onerous as the first go, although still very far down on the list of things she wanted to do in bed with Mark Darcy. After the requisite amount of time, he slipped away to wash his hands. She burrowed under the covers, laid prostrate and rested her cheek on the pillow, closing her eyes.

It was a rotten way to spend a reunion weekend. The only thing that she could think of that might be worse was full body casts. For both of them. Before getting a chance to revisit the more intimate, physical side of their relationship. And then she thought better of thinking such thoughts lest something disastrous happen, so she thought instead of where they were—so idyllic, so pastoral, so elegant. What a lovely walk it had been out there on the grounds before things went funny; the sunlight playing upon the mossy statuary, the wind whispering through the trees in the early summer evening. Suddenly the faintest memory—or was it a dream?—returned teasingly to the forefront of her mind, very elusive, but she held desperately onto it before it could escape: Mark taking her hand, reaching in his suit pocket for something—

When she opened her eyes Mark was not to be seen, his lunch tray was gone and she heard the shower running. She must have been dreaming. With a sigh, she reached for her orange juice, found it was quite tepid. She drank it all down anyway, then laid her head back on the pillow.

"Bridget?"

She jolted from a sleep she hadn't realised she'd drifted back into. It was Mark, dressed in a jumper and casual slacks, clean-shaven but with still-damp hair. He sat beside her, smoothing down her mad locks. "How are you feeling?" he asked gently.

"Very tired."

"That's to be expected. Your body's fighting off the infection. I see you finished your juice. Very good." She smiled wearily. "Is there else anything you want?"

"More water. Or more juice. Orange… or maybe apple."

"I'll get one of each." He stood again, walking to the phone on the desk.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Me?" he asked, taken slightly aback. "I could do with a pint, but otherwise I'm fine."

"But you must be bored out of your skull tending to the invalid here."

"I'll admit it wasn't how I wanted to spend my time this weekend," he said with a half-hearted grin. "But you're ill and there's nothing to be done except to see that you get well."

He raised the phone to his ear and punched in some numbers, speaking quietly to the concierge. When he hung up he turned back to her. "There. They'll have our beverages within half an hour. As for what to do to pass the time…. Well. I didn't exactly pack any reading material…. Um. Would you like to watch the telly?" She shrugged; he chuckled. "You must be ill if you're forsaking the telly."

"There's never anything good showing on Saturday afternoon. Oh God." She was suddenly horrified by the thought of hitting sleepy pockets and waking only long enough to have another pill stuffed into her backside. "What time is it?"

"It's about two. You have a reprieve before your next dose." The relief must have been abundant on her face, for he chuckled again. He looked thoughtful once more. "We could play chess. I'm sure there's a chess set somewhere in this hotel."

"I can't play chess. I don't know how. I never got the hang of all the specialised moves for the different pieces."

"I could teach you," he said brightly.

She had visions of the inevitable result of that endeavour. "You could also try to teach a pig to sing, but we both know how that would turn out."

He outright laughed. "Point taken. How about a movie? There's a DVD player attached to the telly and a list of movies available for loan."

"Yes. I like that idea."

After debating between three films from widely divergent genres, they decided on a mystery thriller. Slipping into her complimentary terry robe, Bridget got up to use the loo for its intended purpose (pleased at not feeling like she might topple over) as Mark dealt with the young staff member who brought the juices and water, as well as crisps and some beer for Mark. Mark changed into his more comfortable trackie bottoms as she shed the robe and crawled back beneath the sheets, then, making sure the bucket was at her bedside, Mark plumped the pillows up and joined Bridget. Her juice and water bottles were on her nightstand, and his beer (cap removed) and crisps were on a tray next to him on the bed. He pressed play and slipped his arm about her waist, and as his fingertips grazed along her bare hip, it was as if he'd forgotten she'd taken off her pyjama bottoms; he recoiled his hand back like he'd touched a hot cooker and settled it instead on her forearm. He bent and kissed her temple, a silent apology for inadvertently stirring any desires she was presently unable to act on, then reached for a sip of beer.

She rested her head on his chest, determined to focus not on the residual feel of his fingers on her hipbone but instead on the movie, and with great interest she directed her attention on the opening sequence.

Before she knew it, Mark was rousing her awake, the credits were rolling on the film, it was four in the afternoon and time for another glutamine treatment. Each iteration seemed to be a little easier to take, not just for her, but for Mark as well. She drank a little more juice, thankful at having kept it down, then rested her head back on the pillow.

He tucked the bed covers around her then perched beside her on the bed. "Do you mind me stepping out for a bit?" he asked gently, his fingers brushing along her cheek. She realised he had put his slacks back on. "Will you be all right?"

"Sick of me already?" she teased wearily with a smile. It really surprised her how tired she was.

"You know that isn't so," he retorted gently. "I'd just like to take care of a few things. And I promise to be back in time for—well, be back by eight."

She was torn. She felt terrible for keeping him cooped up here with her, but she also didn't want him to go should she need him. It must have shown on her face because he said, "Never mind. I'll stay."

Her tone was resolute as she said, "No, go on. I'll be fine, really. I'll probably only be sleeping anyway, and that's not very exciting for you."

"If you're sure."

She nodded.

"You know," he said, "the last time I asked you if you were sure about something, you went funny and feverish."

"Mark, go _on_ already. Don't make me get out of bed and kick your arse."

"Okay," he said with a small chuckle, looking ten times better then he had that morning, but still very weary. Pointing out each individual item, he said, "Right here you've got your bucket, your bottle of ibuprofen, your juices and your water, the remote to the telly, and here's your mobile. If you need me, call me."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

He laughed softly, kissed her, then departed.

She closed her eyes for what felt like a minute when she heard her mobile ringing. Thinking it might be Mark, she sat up (risking the return of a pounding headache), flipped it open without looking, and said, "I'm still fine, now go on or I really will I kick your arse."

"Bridge?" It was an incredulous Shazzer.

"Whoops. Sorry about that."

"No, I meant—I didn't expect you'd actually, you know, _answer_. Thought you'd be halfway through a box of Durex by now."

Feeling her headache threatening a return, she laid back down onto the pillow. "What time is it?"

"About six—why? Still shag-drunk?" Shaz taunted.

Bridget sighed. "Not quite."

Shaz went silent, then spoke in a deadly serious tone: "Please don't tell me you've had a fucking row, Bridge, after everything Mark's done for you, not to mention a fucking marriage proposal—"

"No, no, it isn't that at all." She then told Shaz the saga of the illness, how Mark had been taking care of her and that he had simply gone out to run an errand. She decided to leave out the bit about the actual treatment.

"Oh, Bridge, that's so fucking unfair—I'm _so_ sorry."

"Yeah. So am I. Fucking Thailand."

"I'm off Thai takeaway for possibly the rest of my life."

Bridget laughed. "So why _did_ you call, anyway?"

"I was just going to leave a, um, voice message for you."

"What kind of voice message?"

She could almost see Shaz's knit-brow look of embarrassed consternation all the way out there in the country. "Never mind."

Bridget laughed; she knew exactly what kind of voice message had probably been in store: rude sounds, naughty descriptions, offers of bulk johnnies, that sort of thing. "Shaz, I'll talk to you later."

"Call me when you get back to town."

"Will do."

She hung up and contemplated flipping the telly on just to fill the silent room with sound when she heard the door key and handle turn. She expected to see Mark break the plane of the door. Not a bouquet of roses.

"Hold on, let me make sure she's, um, all right before you go barging in there," came Mark's impatient voice from the hallway.

"I'm decent, if that's what you mean," Bridget replied, making certain that she was in fact fully covered.

"Very sorry, sir, miss," said the appalled young man in an obsequious manner as he set the beautiful blooms on Bridget's bedside table. "I didn't realise the room was occupied."

Mark's ruffled feathers smoothed down when he saw that Bridget was not negatively affected by the appearance of a third party. "Quite all right." Mark cleared his throat. "Thank you."

The young man bowed briefly at the waist, then retreated.

"These are so lovely, Mark; thank you," she said moonily, gazing up at the red roses from her position on the pillow. "I'd get up but my head's woozy…"

"It's all right. I'll get you some pills if your stomach's okay."

"It's okay."

"Have you been awake long?"

"No. Just had a call from Shazzer, that's all."

"Ah." Bridget knew that the Urban Family's opinion of Mark had improved a thousand times over since his handling of the Thai prison debacle, but she was still unsure of his opinion of them. His neutral reply didn't lend any insight either way. He continued, "So. Not a single comment?"

"What, about Shaz?" she asked.

He merely gave her a look, a curious mixture of amusement and disbelief. It was then she realised he had also brought in some carrier bags.

"Mark! What's all this?"

He smiled. "I thought you might like a little something to cheer you," he said.

She was never one to turn down presents of any variety.

The first was from a little boutique in Stratford. She sat up very slowly and he gave her the bag. She pulled out the loveliest, softest cotton nightgown she'd ever seen or felt, cream coloured with a tasteful Delft-blue floral pattern and a light lacy edging. "I thought you might have grown a little tired of the men's flannels."

She smiled. She realised then that there were two more identical gowns in the bag: one with crimson patterning, and another, deep hunter green.

"Three?"

"Well, since we're staying longer than anticipated—"

"What?"

He looked sheepish. "I've made arrangements to stay through until next weekend. I thought you might like to recuperate out here in the country, away from the stresses of everyday life in the city."

The idea delighted her, but—"What about work?"

"I've already spoken to Richard Finch on your behalf. He understands and sends his well-wishes." She imagined how that conversation must have gone, would have loved to have overheard Mark turning Richard Finch into a simpering heap. "Thankfully I'm all caught up with my backlog from the trips to Dubai, Thailand and elsewhere—and Jeremy, Giles, Rebecca _et al._ have offered to step in and pick up anything new."

"Remind me to get them all thank you presents."

Mark handed her another carrier bag. This one had recent editions of _Hello_ and _Marie Claire_. She looked to him and smiled a bit abashedly. "I would have bought you a Milk Tray but I thought the temptation whilst you're on antibiotics would have been too great." At her confused look—did Cadbury break antibiotics?—he added, "Can't have dairy due to the doxycycline."

"Ah." She set down the magazines, looked to the roses and the nightgowns, and was overwhelmed. "You are too good to me," she said softly.

"I feel I have a lot to make up for," he said, his tone very serious.

"What are you talking about? My chucking you was my own stupidity."

"Well, no, not entirely. I didn't do more to assuage your fears regarding Rebecca. And for that I am sorry." He sat down beside her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, kissing her cheek. "But that wasn't what I meant. I meant having to do such… unpleasant things in the name of your health."

She could not help but laugh.

Regrettably, the laughter triggered another very different muscular reflex, and Mark was again reaching for the bucket. She thanked her lucky stars for his quick response and her practised aim—years of boozing it up in bars had not, in fact, gone to waste.

………

Much like the night before, he utilised the thermometer Hugh had provided (oral, thank goodness) and assisted her into the cool water bath once again to help with her fever, which he was happy to note had gone down almost a half a degree. Mark had phoned the front desk to arrange for housekeeping to come at nine that night to change the linens, a bit late in the evening for such things but they agreed without hesitation, and frankly, Bridget was so eager to have fresh linens she would have let them in at midnight. He'd advised he'd eaten supper in Stratford but offered to order up anything she wanted. She thought she might try some chicken broth, so he'd ordered room service.

She realised with a dawning horror she'd been right after all about being wrapped in luxury linens and calling on room service but not exactly in the way she'd hoped, and sulkily told herself that in future she would have to be more careful what she wished for.

In the meanwhile, though, he dug out her shampoo and conditioner at her behest, and with a bit of frustration and a lot of water spraying about, he washed her hair for her.

"It's amazing how a bath can help one to feel ten times better," she said as he patted at her locks with a clean towel.

"Or," said Mark drolly, indicating his dampened jumper and trousers, "a shower."

"Sorry," she said. But he was smiling. She thought secretly he kind of liked pampering her in such a way, and truth be told, she kind of liked it too—if only she weren't sick.

He helped her into the blue nightgown, combed her hair out carefully (which she absolutely reveled in), led her to the bed, then pulled out what he needed to deliver the eight P.M. treatment. For her part she assumed the position she had become very used to assuming.

His hand upon her backside, he said, "Now, Hugh advised to alternate injection sites, so—" He stopped short.

"I understand. 'Turn the other cheek', in a manner of speaking."

He was silent. She swiveled her head to the side to see him sitting looking rather melancholy for a man who was smiling. "What?" she asked.

Softly he said, "I've never known anyone quite like you, Bridget." It wasn't what he said that touched her deeply, but what he didn't say: the regret for the failed first try at a relationship, the determination not to let her get away again, was evident in his voice.

The warm, happy feeling was more than enough to sustain her through another round of treatment.

………

With fifteen minutes to go until housekeeping was scheduled to show, a firm knock at the door announced the arrival of the broth. Mark carried in the tray with a grateful nod. He set it down, helped her up from her prone position on the bed, swaddled her with a blanket, and sat her down in the wingback chair before placing the tray on her lap. She sipped at the broth—salty and a bit thin, but good. He handed her the magazines, even offered to read her the feature story, which she briefly considered before a quiet rap at the door and the telltale call of "housekeeping" announced the fresh linens had arrived.

Two pretty young women, one auburn-haired, one brunette, neither older than twenty-five, came in with an armload of linens. Bridget watched with reserved amusement as they deferred to Mark, even so far as half-bowing to him as he stood by Bridget's side, near her chair. The overly modest demeanour and coy exchange of glances between them told her they fancied her fiancé—a perfectly understandable, reasonable reaction—but as she observed their trim young bodies going through the practised dance of making the bed, Bridget felt like the old woman of the hills, and a sickly one at that. She sank into a funk.

As they finished their task, Red said in a lilting northern accent, nodding politely to Bridget, "We hope Madame is feeling better soon."

"Thank you," Bridget said tersely. _Madame?_

She swore they actually curtsied before gathering up the discarded bedclothes and retreating.

"So how was the broth?"

She turned her head to look up at him. "Just my speed," she said.

"Come, the bed's ready."

"I think I'll stay in the chair for a bit, if it's all the same," she said a bit snappishly.

"Whatever suits you." He crouched beside her lap. "What's the matter? Was it the broth?"

"No, I told you the broth was fine." Involuntarily her eyes turned to the door that Red and her mate had just exited. Before she could stop herself he took notice.

"Did the chambermaids do something wrong?"

Too quickly, too eagerly, she said, "No."

"Bridget… tell me what it is."

Resignedly she admitted, "Well, they didn't do anything _wrong_, per se; they were just… they were _falling_ over themselves for you. Surely you noticed."

"The only thing I noticed was that they were efficient," commented Mark, reaching for her hand. She must have looked doubtful for he continued. "Okay, yes, I _did_ notice they were fawning over me a bit."

She scoffed. "More than a bit. And I'm sure you noticed that they were young, and really attractive, in shape, and not in fact suffering from lepto-whatever…"

He regarded her intently, as if studying her, analysing her blue eyes, committing the contours of her face to memory. Finally he said softly, "But they're not _you_." He paused, considering his words, touching her cheek. "You make me laugh like no one else can—and I don't mean _at_ you," he said, cutting off the protest he must have known would be bubbling under the surface. "Your spontaneity brings joy to my life. You're beautiful and _bloody_ sexy—" The way he said it like a soft growl made her face flush with heat. "—and as I believe I've remarked on more than one occasion, I find your figure to be quite perfect; I continue to be deeply disappointed that I can't take full advantage of it at this very moment." He dropped his hand and ran it over her knee, and even though it was buried in blankets, she felt a shiver run through her. "Surely _you've_ noticed," he finished tenderly.

She wondered if she'd been well if he would have shouted at her instead of speaking so patiently, and she sighed. Why did she continue to sabotage herself in such a manner? "I know, Mark… I have noticed. I'm sorry. I'm just… not feeling my best at the moment. Throwing up, being stuck in the arse in more ways than one… none of it does much for a girl's self-esteem, and then those twelve-year-olds call me 'Madame'…"

"Hm." He got to his feet, and walked over towards the door. For a horrifying moment she thought he might actually leave, but instead he went to the closet.

She called after him, "Mark? You're not angry, are you?"

He lowered his head, his back still to her, then approached her again, raising his eyes to her. "Of course I'm not angry." He crouched beside her again, then knelt. "I was going to give this to you last night, but with everything that happened, I wasn't able to. Then I thought I might wait until you were feeling better, but, well, I see that flowers, nightgowns and magazines aren't quite doing the trick for lifting your spirits." A small smile flitted across his lips as he presented her with what he had gone to the closet—to his suit jacket, presumably—to retrieve.

She gasped, her hand involuntarily going to her mouth. Before her was a small black box that he had popped open, and nestled within was a beautiful diamond ring: a silver band and tapered side stones flanking the brilliant-cut center stone.

"So yes, my unfortunately queasy love, I still want only you." He pulled the ring out of the box, took her left hand, and slipped it on.

Tears flooded her eyes and, blinking them back, she held up her hand to look at the brightest star in the night sky resting there on her finger. "It's amazing."

A full-blown smile overtook his face. "Sharon told me you'd say that."

Her gaze returned to his face. "_Shaz?_"

"Well, you didn't think I'd make a decision like this without some input from your friends, did you?"

"Friends?"

"Yes. Sharon, Jude and Tom all came with me to Asprey."

"_Asprey?_" If she'd been standing, she surely would have needed to sit. Never in a million years would she have ever guessed her engagement ring would someday come from an upper-crust place like Asprey. How had those three stayed so quiet about such a big surprise? Suddenly she wondered about Shaz's call earlier and the actual nature of the message she meant to leave.

He smirked. "Apparently platinum has an odd effect on you. It's turned you into a mynah bird."

"Plati—?" She stopped herself, smiled, wiped under her eyes, then reached forward for him, thanking him without words in the strength of her embrace. He slipped his hands around to her back, and for many moments he simply held her.

"Mark," she said, breaking the silence, "help me up."

He pulled back, looking alarmed. "Not feeling sick, are you?"

She shook her head. "I was thinking I might like to go to the bed after all. A little more conducive to snuggling up with you properly."

He smiled and stood.

It was incredibly bad timing on the universe's part that at that particular moment Bridget's body should violently reject the chicken broth so soon after she declared she was not feeling sick. She held her hands to her face, but this time Mark was not quick enough with the bucket. Her hands were insufficient to contain what she expelled, and the blanket on her lap became instantly saturated.

"I'm sorry," she managed, once she had regained her breath.

"Don't apologise," he said, gathering up the blanket, dropping it into the bucket, then helped her stand and stripped her of the damp nightgown, which joined the blanket. With a smile he smoothed down her hair and quipped, "If you didn't really like the ring you could have just said so."

She held up her left hand, mortified to realise she had just puked all over her brand new ring. Holding her hand out in front of her as if it were a dead rat, she gasped, "Oh my God. Get me to the sink. I need to wash it off!"

"Do you want to put the ring back in the box until—" He stopped short at her appalled look, as if he'd instead suggested she lop her entire hand off. "Never mind. Well. I guess there's another bath in our future, here."

After requesting a new bucket and laundry service for the sullied items, Mark helped her to wash up again and dressed her in the crimson nightgown. He slipped an arm around her waist and walked her to the bed. "God," he muttered, his hand tightening momentarily on her hip.

"What is it?" She turned her head to look up at him, and he looked down to meet her gaze.

"I shouldn't say anything as you'll likely take it the wrong way, but: it feels like there's nothing to you." He bent to turn down the edge of the duvet.

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

He got her all settled in, then drew the covers over her, and sat beside her. "You were thin enough after Thai prison, and now this…"

"Thin?" She smiled. Broadly. "_Really?_"

"That is exactly what I was afraid of," he sighed, combing her hair back with his fingers. She closed her eyes, happy in the knowledge that she was so well-loved and, despite the condition of her health leading to her inability to shag the most gorgeous human rights barrister in existence, thin. As she drifted off to sleep she clasped her left hand to her breast, coddling her incredible new ring, and resolved to stay thin, because one thing she did not want to be was a pudgy bride.

………


	3. Part 3

**In Sickness and…**

© by S. Faith '06-'07

Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

* * *

Part 3

Sunday

The door to the suite being opened woke Bridget.

"Morning, Mark," came a voice from the hall.

"Shh," replied Mark. "She's still sleeping."

"Ah. Right. Sorry."

Not raising her head from the pillow, Bridget cracked one eye open to see who Mark was bringing into the room. The drapes were still drawn so there was a relative dimness to the room, but she could see it was Hugh Carri, and it appeared that he was bringing breakfast for himself and his friend. She closed her eyes, heard them take seats in the chairs near the foot of the bed, and tear into breakfast.

"Sorry it's not fancier than pastry and coffee," said Hugh, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's all right. My only concern is that the smell will wake Bridget… or make her sick again."

After a few minutes—during which she guessed they were eating—Hugh asked, "How's the treatment going?"

Mark didn't answer right away. "Not as badly as I'd feared. She's still putting up some resistance but I think I've impressed upon her how important it is." However, Mark sighed. "It's still very difficult to have to do."

"Which is why you went into law and I went into medicine. You were always better at _verbal_ evisceration." She heard Mark chuckle, and Hugh did too. She heard one of them sip at a drink, probably coffee. "Bridget seems really sweet, and despite the circumstance, I've never seen you so happy or obviously in love." She was suffused with pride and happiness, as well as overtaken with a complete and utter fondness for Hugh.

Mark simply laughed again, short and sharp. "That doesn't say much about my first marriage."

Bridget's heart leapt into her throat. She had never really gotten Mark to talk much about his first marriage or his ex-wife.

"Bah." There was another pause. "I never thought _she_ was right for you. Too controlling, too snooty. And then she goes and—well. No need to go over that again."

"Indeed not."

"—though I will say," Hugh continued through a mouthful of breakfast, "I never really trusted _him_. Not since Cambridge." Bridget held back a gulp. Daniel. That's who he must have meant.

"I wish you'd shared your insights with me sooner," Mark said drolly.

Hugh made a dismissive _fwah_ sound. "Like you'd've listened. Anyway. That She-Devil is old news, past history—you've got a great girlfriend now who clearly adores you."

Mark did not reply right away. "Hugh, I thought I told you. I've asked her to marry me."

She heard Hugh choke on his coffee. "_Really?_ This from the man who'd sworn off marriage?"

She imagined Mark was nodding his head, perhaps smiling. She was shocked—she'd had no idea.

"Well!" continued Hugh. "Many congrats."

"Thanks." She could tell without looking that Mark was definitely smiling now. "We had a bit of a rough spot—we split up, actually—prior to her trip to Thailand."

"Clearly that's been sorted out," said Hugh dryly, his mouth obviously full of food again.

Mark chuckled. "Yeah, this was to be our little reunion getaway."

"Aw, Christ, I'm sorry to hear."

"It's all right, really." She could hear that he was still smiling. "I missed her so much I'll take her sick or well." She felt her throat swell with emotion, and she swallowed hard.

"How'd you meet her, anyway?" Hugh asked. "I mean this in the best possible way when I say she doesn't seem the usual type of woman you encounter in your line of work, so I'm sure this is an interesting story."

Mark chuckled. "Our mothers are friends and conspired to set us up with each other. It didn't go well at first—we met at New Year's. I was in a bad mood because of the time of year—"

"Of course."

"—then surly on top of that because my mother wouldn't shut up about this 'nice girl who'd be perfect for you'…" Mark's voice slipped an octave higher as he imitated his mother, and Hugh busted out with a laugh before (probably) stifling it with his hand.

"So what turned things around?"

"We met a few more times outside the confines of the Turkey Curry Buffet—don't even ask, Hugh, you really don't want to know—and I realised—God. It's so hard to explain. She's so different than any other woman I've ever known, certainly much different than anyone I've ever been involved with. She's constantly challenging me, turning my world upside-down with an impulsiveness and vivacity I'm well aware I lack…" He made a soft sighing sound. "I didn't realise how much I needed Bridget until she was gone—I was devastated when I heard she'd gone back with Daniel—"

"Hold on, don't tell me—_that_ Daniel?"

Mark probably nodded. "He'd broken her heart before we ever got together."

"Jesus. That man keeps turning up like a bad penny."

Mark chuckled, surprisingly enough.

Hugh continued, "So she came to her senses and left him?"

"Ah, but she never did go back to him. And she still loved me. I knew I didn't want to spend my life without her, and so, after the most un-romantic of proposals… here we are."

It was undoubtedly the unvarnished truth from one friend to another, and though she didn't doubt his expressions of love to her, hearing him disclose his feelings so honestly to his friend touched her deeply. She willed back tears of joy in an effort to keep her eavesdropping covert.

"And confidentially, a much better choice this time," declared Hugh. "I can't imagine the ol' She-Devil would have ever let me see her sick, in flannels, without a stitch of makeup on. She would have preferred to die first." Bridget stifled a laugh of her own, thankful for Hugh's wit bringing her back from the brink of snotty bawling.

Mark laughed a little more loudly that time, and Bridget took the opportunity to turn over in an unsubtle way and raise her head from the pillow. "Mark?" she asked drowsily, drawing out the vowel sound in his name.

"Darling, I'm sorry—did I wake you?"

As Mark came to her side, Hugh asked, standing behind him, "How are you feeling?"

"Hugh! What are you doing here?" she asked, feigning surprise.

"Airlifting food in for the field medic," he said, pointing to Mark. She chuckled.

As Mark pressed his hand to her forehead, she said, "I'm feeling okay, I guess. Still want to do nothing but sleep."

"It's good for you to sleep so much. Why don't we check your temperature?"

She saw Mark reach for the thermometer, and she opened her mouth to allow him to place it under her tongue. He timed it on his wristwatch, was pleased that the fever had held steady and not gone up again.

"You should see the fever break some time tomorrow," advised Hugh. "Three days into treatment is usually when that happens." He glanced to his own wrist. "Well, I must be off. Good to see you again, Bridget, and I'm glad to hear you're staying on schedule. I take it Mark has made it clear how vital it is to completely finish the treatment schedule?"

"Yes. Indeed."

"Excellent. I'll drop by again later, maybe steal Mark away for a pint in town, if that's okay with you." He grinned. She nodded.

As he made to step away, Bridget called out, "Hugh?"

He turned back, came close to the bed again. "Yes?"

She fought very hard to keep a smile from her face, curling her fingers over the edge of the duvet. "Why did you call Mark 'Captain' the other day?"

Hugh looked to Mark, whose eyes briefly widened and narrowed again. Upon looking back to Bridget, Hugh said, his eyes connecting with her finger, "Hey, that must be your engagement ring. May I have a closer look?"

Bridget smiled and thrust her hand towards him.

"Oh, very nice." He glanced up to Mark. "Very nice indeed."

Bridget beamed as Mark walked Hugh to the door. It was only then she realised that Hugh had deftly deflected her query with the one thing that could have possibly distracted her: the subject of her ring. Very sneaky.

Mark returned to the bed. Bridget could not help but remark, "I bet it's nice to have friends that'll cover for you in such a way, Captain."

"Bridget," he said with a half-grin. "Leave well enough alone, already."

Mark returned to where he and Hugh had been eating their pastries and coffee, cleaning up the packaging. The sun was now coming through the drapes and it illuminated him along his right side; she could see shadow in the slight dimpling of his cheek, the highlights in his brown hair. She thought of the ring on her finger, of how very lucky she was. She even felt somewhat thankful for the Thai prison stay because if not for that, she doubted they would have ever gotten back together.

"Mark?"

He turned to her. "Yes, darling?" he asked.

"It's not quite eight yet. Come back to bed for a bit before… well, you know."

He tucked the paper plates and coffee cups into the sack, set the whole mess back down, then slipped into the other side of the bed, curling up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, nuzzling his face into her hair. As she felt her lids get heavy once more with sleep, she recalled the memory/dream of the two of them walking the grounds of the hotel, of him taking her hand, and she instantly returned to wakefulness. "Mark? Were you going to give me the ring on Friday night in the garden?"

"I was. Why?"

"Well… I thought I dreamt it, but it was a memory after all."

His embrace tightened ever so slightly for a brief moment.

She turned over to face him, suddenly needing more contact than an embrace. "I know we can't really, you know, _do_ anything about it, but if I could at least beg a kiss from you—"

If there was one thing Bridget Jones did not need to ask twice of Mark Darcy, it was to kiss her. He pushed her hair back and away from her face, then tentatively pressed his lips to hers like that December night on the snowy street; as she parted her lips in invitation, his kiss turned hungry but still gentle. His hands slipped over her shoulder with a feather-light caress, down to her waist and then her thigh, searching for the hem of her nightgown.

"Mark… Mark…" she managed between kisses. For all her desiring of a good shag, she knew it was not a sensible thing to do at present.

"I know," he said throatily. "I just want to make you feel good, that's all."

"What about—"

"Don't worry about me. Now hush."

She did as he asked, but not because she was told to. It had more to do with the feel of his fingers caressing the extra-sensitive skin of her breast, skimming down and around the curve of her hip and finally playing along her abdomen.

When eight o'clock's treatment came around, she hardly cared.

………

Lingering about in bed, watching movies, snacking, cuddling, kissing and talking. If she put out of mind her treatment, it really was the ideal romantic getaway. All of it truly was enough to spoil a girl.

"Bridget, I hate to say it, but… it's time for another… you-know."

She sighed, returning from her drowsy half-sleep. If only she _could_ put it out of her mind; there simply wasn't enough time between treatments to do so. She opened her eyes to look at Mark looming over her, opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say a word, he said, "I'm sorry, but no."

"But—"

"I know what you were going to ask: if we could skip one." She pouted and furrowed her brows in a disgruntled manner. Damn him for knowing her so well. Mark continued, "And the answer's no." He traced his fingers along her cheek. "I'd buy you an ice cream treat if you could have it."

"I liked the treat you gave me earlier," she said with a devilish smile, placing her hand atop his.

"Bridget," he replied playfully, "there isn't enough cold water in the world for me to give you that sort of treat with every dose." He bent to briefly kiss her before standing and heading for the dreaded bag of prescription medications. "We can get this over with then have lunch. You can give the broth another try."

Once again she sighed, this time more heavily, more dramatically.

He unexpectedly chuckled. "Come on, my petulant four year old, or I'll give you a smack on your bottom." He sat down on the bed.

She kicked off the covers, crawled to him to take up her perch over his lap. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she said crossly.

………

"I think I'd like to sit by the window. I'm starting to feel like a shut-in."

"I can arrange that."

Mark swiveled one of the chairs nearer to the window, then moved the table next to it, along with her juices, water, bucket and mobile phone. He pulled the drapes aside so that the room was bathed with golden sunlight, then went to help her out of bed. Getting her settled in the chair, he pulled a blanket over her lap.

"There, how's that?"

She gazed out the window to the pretty landscape beyond: the green grass, lush, verdant trees, the sparkling lake, and at once she wasn't so sure it was a good idea to sit and look outdoors, because it made her want to _be_ outdoors.

"Bridget?"

She turned to look at him, eyes pleading. "It looks so gorgeous out there. Do you think we could go for a short walk?"

He looked dubious. "I don't think that's wise, darling. You're still so weak."

"Just a short one, please? It's not like it's winter out there—it's _June_! We have hours until I'm due for another capsule. And I haven't thrown up all day. _Please._"

He met her gaze with his own, clearly prepared to stand his ground. "Don't let this sudden feeling of wellness fool you. I'm pleased the broth was a success today, but you are only on your second day of treatment—you must remember you are still fairly ill."

She sat back in the chair and made a disapproving sound.

"I'm going to go shower. Be out very soon. Sit and enjoy the sunshine."

He went into the bathroom, leaving her to her thoughts. Tauntingly a young couple strolled by hand in hand on the path just outside the window. The woman had something in her hand, and as she brought it to her face, Bridget realised what it was: a cigarette. Suddenly her entire body cried out for one as it seemingly realised it had not had a nicotine fix since sometime early Friday, just before Mark had come to pick her up. She heard the water running; she knew he could sometimes take longer showers than she did.

So she decided to fly the coop in the name of fresh air, sunshine, and ciggies.

She found a pair of her own trackie bottoms, her bra (which felt a little restrictive after two days without) and a tee shirt, slipped on her trainers, and slid her packet of Silk Cut and lighter out of her handbag and into her pocket. She looked at herself in the mirror and as much as she wanted to stop for makeup, she did not have enough time—and the makeup bag was in the bathroom, anyhow. Besides, she could do with the sun on her face to give her a little colour.

Gently Bridget eased the door open, listening for tell-tale sounds from the bathroom that might indicate that Mark had heard the handle turning. Within seconds she had closed it behind herself and was walking briskly down the hallway to the lobby.

She went out through the front doors and took in a great, big, aching lungful of fresh country air. She hadn't realised quite how stuffy it had been in that room; as the room was climate controlled and on the first floor, the windows were unable to be opened. Bridget went down the grand front steps, squinting in the sunshine, looked to her right and saw a masonry-lined path leading straight to a patio with a yellow- and orange-moss-covered bust of Athena—which she immediately remembered walking to with Mark the night she'd fallen ill.

It wasn't that great a distance, and the temperature outside was quite pleasant. Yet she felt extremely overheated and quite unable to continue after covering only half the length to the patio. She stopped to rest against the stone railing when a horrifying thought occurred to her:

She didn't have a room key. She was locked out.

Bridget pressed her fingers into the corners of her eyes to gather her wits and her focus before heading back inside. Presumably the front desk could let her in, but it was at this point going to be impossible to return to the room without him knowing. And the state she was in, he was going to give her the world's greatest 'I told you so' lecture imaginable upon returning. To add insult to injury, she felt a glimmer of queasiness in her gut.

"_Bridget?_"

She whipped her head up, making herself slightly dizzy, and to her surprise it was Hugh.

"Hi," she said as casually as she could, still leaning against the carved granite.

"What are you doing out here? I thought I told Mark—"

"Mark's in the shower—oh _God_, Hugh, I had to get some air." She silently cursed herself; she hadn't meant to sound so desperate in her admission.

"You should not be outside," he said sternly. He held his hand out to her and said in a slightly kinder tone, "Let's get you back to your room."

"Okay."

They started to walk the path to the main stairway to the manor, with Bridget leaning heavily upon his arm. How could she have been so foolishly defiant? Then again how was she to know—well, what exactly should she have known? "Hugh, back there you started to say 'I thought I told Mark' something. What was it?"

"The morning I came back with your treatment I told him to keep you indoors to reduce the risk of being exposed to something else. Even the common cold would be exponentially worse and take longer to get rid of if you caught it on top of leptospirosis."

"He never told me that," she said as they mounted the stairs.

"I'd wager he never thought you'd attempt a prison break."

"Bridget!" came Mark's voice from the landing above them. Both she and Hugh looked up simultaneously. Seeing Mark made her feel ten times worse: he was utterly disheveled, wet locks in disarray, his jumper inside-out, rumpled trousers and wearing no socks with his shoes. He ran down to where they were.

"Look who I found prowling around out here," Hugh said with a smirk. She was glad for his humourous interjection yet again.

"Are you all right?" Mark asked, placing his hands on either side of her face, looking point-blank into her eyes, his nose nearly touching hers. She realised he wasn't angry. He was terrified.

"I'm fine," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I just had to get outside."

He wrapped his arms around her, sighing deeply. "All I could think was that you'd gone all funny and feverish again, weren't in your right mind and had wandered away…"

"I won't do it again, I swear. Hugh's told me there's a good reason I shouldn't be out here."

He pulled back and kissed her very briefly, as if he was embarrassed to show too much affection in front of his friend.

"All's well that ends well," Hugh said with a smile as the three of them scaled the stairs, Mark with his arm about Bridget's waist.

"Oh, bloody hell," Mark said as they made their way down the hall.

"What is it?" asked Bridget.

"I've locked us out of the room."

………

The concierge was able to let them back into their room without incident; Mark's ability to produce his billfold (thankfully in his trouser pocket) to prove his identity certainly helped. Bridget was marched directly to the bed by Mark, where he plopped her on the edge. She pushed her trainers off, kicking them aside.

Hugh said, "I think this is my cue, Mark. Come and find me in the lobby when you've gotten the fugitive secured again."

Mark looked uneasy. "Perhaps I shouldn't leave you alone, Bridget."

"Don't let's start that again. Go on. I'm so tired now I'm just going to go to sleep. And I've got the mobile for emergencies so you needn't worry."

He smiled, but it seemed a little forced. "All right. Hugh, give me a moment to make myself a little more presentable."

"Aye-aye—er, see you in a few." He slipped out more quickly than entirely necessary.

He grabbed a clean nightgown—the green one this time—then reached for Bridget's tee and pulled it over her head. He sat and slipped his hands around her ribcage to undo the clasp of her bra, which only served to further frustrate him.

"Here, let me." She folded her arms behind her back and flicked the clasp open in seconds. "Ta da."

Mark pursed his lips. "You've had decidedly more practice at that than I have."

"That's true. We shall have to rectify that."

No sooner had the words come out of her mouth did she regret saying them; she kept forgetting she shouldn't make such tantalising comments while she was sick. The one-sided session earlier was delightful, but must have been very difficult for Mark to not get satisfaction of his own. She held his gaze with a silent apology. He said nothing; instead, he brushed his hands along her shoulders and hooked his forefingers around the bra straps, then pull them down her arms. "Stand up, darling," he said, doing the same.

She did. He stripped her of the trackie bottoms. As he folded them for her he felt the lump in the pocket, and, drawing his brows together, he pulled her packet of cigarettes and lighter out. "Bridget," he said gravely.

"I didn't actually smoke, I swear."

"But you were going to."

"I thought about it."

"Would you have if Hugh hadn't come along?"

"Maybe. Probably." At his continued piercing gaze, she confessed, "Yes."

"You told me you'd quit."

She had told him that, but had really taken to smoking on the sly. As if partaking in some sort of unspoken cease-fire agreement, she thought he knew she hadn't really quit but was indulging her by making her think he believed her. Maybe she'd been wrong. "I did try to stop in Thailand, but then it was so stressful in prison, and…" She trailed off.

He didn't say anything for a minute or two. When he did speak, his voice was very low. Disappointed. As he spoke, his temper clearly flared. "I'm going to take this packet, and I'm going to throw it out, and I want you to promise me not to buy any more because I don't want you to keep slowly killing yourself before my eyes. Do you hear me?"

Would she have the willpower to keep such a promise? All she knew when she saw the glossy cast of his eyes was that she would have to. There was no question which was more important to her.

"I promise, Mark."

He then shoved the packet and disposable lighter into his own trouser pocket (for disposal outside the room, she guessed), embraced her, then took his hands away from her as if he'd forgotten she was naked.

"You've got time for a quick snog and cuddle, don't you?" she said quietly.

His hands returned to her waist, her back. "Maybe a quick one," he whispered in reply, kissing her quite fiercely.

………

He pulled the covers up to her shoulders at about five-forty-five. The plan was to pop to the local pub in Wellesbourne for dinner and a pint or two with Hugh, giving him plenty of time before needing to return for her eight P.M. treatment. Her exhaustion and residual warm fuzzies from their cuddling session (poor Mark, she thought again) meant that she'd dropped off to sleep almost instantly and so solidly she didn't think she even dreamed.

Through the haze of sleep she heard her mobile ringing. It was an effort to open her eyes. A single hand shot out from beneath the covers and palmed the phone, flipping it open and pressing it to her ear. "Yes?"

"Darling, welcome home! How was your weekend?"

"Mum," she croaked, reaching for her glass of orange juice to soothe her throat. She really needed to get in the habit of glancing at the incoming caller display.

"Bridget, you haven't come down with something, have you? You sound like death warmed over! I could pop over with some soup, wouldn't be any trouble at all—"

"Mum, we're still here."

There was a moment or two before she replied to her daughter's statement. "Still there? In the country? What about work? Durr, you silly lovebirds…" Her mother had been beyond pleased that after Bridget's proclamation of 'no hope' she and Mark were back together again, but even still Pamela Jones could not hide the scolding tone in her voice.

"Mother. It's not that. I _have_ come down with something."

"Oh, darling, I do hope it hasn't spoilt your weekend," her mother said sympathetically.

"Not entirely. Mark's been taking good care of me."

"Of course he is—he's that kind of man," she said, a touch smugly. "When will you be home?"

"Probably next Sunday."

Her mum gasped. "That long? My word, what have you got? Malaria?"

"No, but it was something I picked up in Thailand."

"Mark should bring you home! Your mummy can tend to you."

Bridget shuddered to think of her mother dosing her. "I can get lots of peace, quiet and rest here, Mum. I told you I'm in good hands, between Mark and his doctor friend."

Her mother was quiet for a moment, then turned unexpectedly serious and maternal: "If you needed anything, I'd be there as soon as I could. You know that."

"Of course I do, Mum. I appreciate it."

Almost as quickly she turned back into her bubbly self. "Ooh, must whiz, Daddy's looking for the cream tarts. Love you."

"Love you too. And send my love to Dad."

"I will."

She disconnected the call and pondered the discussion with her mother. No, her weekend had not entirely been spoilt, and the time spent having his undivided attention had been lovely, but she realised how much the opposite of mature and capable she felt. She hadn't proven anything at all to Mark. She was no irresistible sex goddess; she was a puking, feverish four year old. She looked up to the roses, twisted the ring on her finger. It was slightly depressing to think of their embarking on a newer, stronger relationship with her feeling so helpless.

Her mobile rang again. It was Mark.

"Bridget? It's Mark," he asked by way of greeting. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. Just woke a little while ago—Mum called. Something wrong?"

"No. Just wanted to let you know I'm on my way, should not be more than five minutes 'til Hugh has be back there. I'll see you soon."

She realised it must have been nearly eight. The dreaded treatment. She pushed back the covers and walked over to the bureau, face to face with the white paper bag of medicine. Regardless of the episode outdoors, she did feel quite better than she had Friday night, almost good as new, just a little weak from having been so sedentary for the last two and a half days. And she hadn't vomited all day. Yes, she thought steadfastly, it was time to leverage the shots and suppositories into something slightly less unpleasant like oral tablets. But not tonight. No, not so soon after her escape attempt and being caught red-handed with her Silk Cut. It could wait until the morning.

When Mark entered the room a short while later, she was sitting up in bed, her legs crossed beneath the sheets, smiling beatifically at him.

"Hello, love," he said, approaching her, reaching a hand out to stroke her hair, then kissing her on the top of the head. He then drew back, bringing his brows together, looking at her suspiciously. "What are you up to?"

"Mark!" she exclaimed, offended. "Why do you assume I'm up to something?"

"Because with a grin like that on your face, you usually are," he said wryly, smirking. He turned to head for the bureau, reaching for the white paper bag.

She closed her eyes and felt her entire body tense up as he sat on the edge of the bed. He shook the thermometer, held it out, and she opened her mouth to receive it. He focused his eyes on the sweeping second hand of his wristwatch. Sitting there with the glass tube in her mouth, she realised the more she pondered it, the more anxious she became—quite a natural response, she thought, to medieval torture. After the prescribed time he removed it and smiled. "Holding steady. Not broken yet, but hasn't gone up. Good. Now come on," he finished, wiping the thermometer with an alcohol pad and setting it back into its case.

She was very much aware of every muscle in her body as she hiked her nightgown up and took her place over his lap, her legs stretched out behind her.

It was probably just her imagination, but unlike previous shots she felt the pain of the injection come in through her buttock and travel all the way down her leg. She twitched, feeling a second wave of pain shoot down her. As he withdrew the needle, Mark cursed silently under his breath. "I'm so sorry, my love. I think did that in slightly the wrong spot."

She could only take deep breaths, and gulped. "It's all right," she said with a strained voice, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as she felt the pain resonating to her toes.

He reached to his side again, and she heard the rustling of the paper bag, the click of the sharps container opening then closing again, and the plastic bubble of the capsule pack popping. "Bridget, if you stiffen up, it just makes it worse," he said, pausing, likely holding the thing in his hand to warm it up. It was the worst sort of suspense possible for her whilst in such a vulnerable position.

"It isn't as if I'm doing it on purpose," she snapped. She felt his hand on the small of her back, stroking back and forth. But his gentle touch was not having its usual calming effect, and this time, unlike previous treatments, she cried out in pain. "Mark, Mark, I'm serious, let go, it really hurts," she said as tears blurred her vision and she kicked her feet.

He placed his left arm across her back at the shoulders and held down firmly as she tried to push herself up. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, "but I can't. If you'd stop flailing and calm down it would not hurt quite so much."

"That's easy for you to say," she said through gritted teeth.

Then the burning started. She howled. She writhed.

"Bridget, shh, shh," he said in a sympathetic though frustrated tone, his left arm still in place over her. "We're almost done here, if you would only hold still—"

"If someone stuck a hot poker up your arse I bet you wouldn't stay very still," she barked, her knuckles turning white as they gripped the duvet. "I'm not having another one of these. Ever."

He did not reply.

When the burning tapered off, he helped situate her onto the bed so her head was on her pillow, pulled her nightgown over her bottom then covered her with the duvet, then withdrew from her without a single word, heading for the bathroom and closing the door. She laid there, regaining her breath, her eyes closed. She was more resolved than ever to get onto an oral treatment. She was feeling better, stronger, and she would have words with Hugh the next day. He would listen to reason if the declarations of health were coming straight from the patient.

Her breathing was nearly back to normal when she opened her eyes and realised he still had not come out of the loo. "Mark?" she called, her voice cracking.

Not a sound. Not even the water running anymore.

"Mark?" she called again.

The bathroom door opened suddenly and he emerged. "Are you all right?" he asked in a flat, almost clinical tone.

"Well, aside from feeling like I've just been on the rack, I'm fine," she said quietly, not lifting her head from the pillow as she looked up to meet his gaze. His expression was serious but mostly unreadable.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Mark went to answer it.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but we've had a complaint about some shouting and we wanted to make sure everything was all right," came the precise voice of the hotel staff member. Mark stepped back to allow the man into the room to lay eyes on her. He was about what she expected: balding, about sixty, pencil thin moustache.

"As you may be aware, my fiancée has fallen ill and the treatment involves injections, which she objects _strenuously_ to." Mark turned to her, fixing her with a very serious look again.

The man looked alarmed. "It is not something contagious, I hope? We are not equipped to handle large-scale illness."

"No, no. Not at all contagious," he assured the man. "We're very grateful for your amenities here and they are helping her recover more quickly. I'm very sorry, sir, and please relay my apologies to whomever called in the complaint. If those good folks would like something from room service, please, add it to my bill."

The older man looked placated. "All right, Mr. Darcy. Miss," he said, bowing slightly to Bridget, "good night."

Mark shut the door behind him, turned back to her.

Almost simultaneously they each said, "I'm sorry."

She smiled a little from her prone position, her face half buried in the pillow. He came closer and sat beside her, stroking her hair. It was only then she realised his own eyes were reddened and slightly rheumy.

Quietly he said, "I've told you this before. I don't want to have to do this. Your struggling makes it much more difficult all around."

"But you struck a nerve."

"Clearly I struck a nerve when you're feeling your most fragile—"

"No, Mark," she interrupted softly, turning slightly to face him better. "I mean literally. I felt the pain of the needle shoot fire all the way to my toenails."

She watched as a horrified expression flooded over his countenance. "Bridget, I had no idea—"

"How could you have? I should have said something." She swallowed hard, pushing down the memory of the pain. "Next time I'll know. It's all right," she said, holding her arm out towards him. "Right now I just want you to hold me. And I want to hold you back."

He slipped beneath the covers with her and embraced her so that she was half-lying upon his chest, drawing her face to his to kiss her gently.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," she said softly.

"You didn't make me cry," he said, slightly defensively.

She drew her fingers to his face. He closed his eyes under her light touch, and as she brushed her thumb along his lashes, she could feel the dampness there even still. "You were crying."

"I _was_ crying," he confirmed softly as he opened his eyes again, "because I have to continue to hurt you in the name of your health. That was particularly unbearable."

She blinked drowsily, then touched her lips to his once more. "I promise in future—" she began, then stopped, drawing her fingers across her lips in a zipping motion. He cracked a smile at last.

After a few minutes of peaceful quiet, he said in a decidedly lighter tone, "So, now that we've offered all manner of apologies to our neighbours and each other—what are you in the mood for? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Up for some telly or a movie? I could always look for that chess set."

But she simply gazed at him, combing her nails through the dark hair at his temple then raking them over his sideburn, and smiled. "This suits me just fine."

He pulled her up closer, settled his hands on the small of her back, and kissed her thoroughly.

………


	4. Part 4

**In Sickness and…**

© by S. Faith '06-'07

Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

* * *

Part 4

Monday

Bridget watched Mark sleeping as she was often fond of doing. She hated to disturb him and she was feeling wide awake despite the hour—she had been up practically with the sun, and it was June, therefore she knew it was really damned early—so very quietly and slowly she slipped out from beside him and went into the bathroom. She decided to shower; the hot water felt soothing against her skin, pounding into her aching muscles. She never imagined something as ordinary as a shower on her own could feel so freeing; she practically dug her nails into her own scalp as she washed her hair, conditioned it, then scrubbed her skin with the washcloth. She had never felt so clean, she would swear to it.

As she combed her hair out in front of the mirror, she realised how very thin she had become. She swore she could see her ribcage and her face was more drawn than she recalled, but the circles at least had disappeared from under her eyes. She spied a scale and to her delight she found she had reached eight stone four. Yes. YES! She fought the urge to shout out with joy. Years and years of striving to be one-hundred-sixteen pounds, fifty-three and a half kilos—the Holy Grail of weight!—and now she'd done it. Something else that was good had come out of being in prison then being sick, after all. She vowed no more Milk Tray, pizza or anything fattening, ever again.

Though her breasts did look a little… deflated. That she wasn't very thrilled with.

She pulled her hair through her fingers and held it away from her face, pondered either a cut or letting it grow long. At present it only barely brushed her shoulders, too short to be long, too long to be short. Too in-between. She made a mental note to ask Mark what he thought, but for now, she simply squeezed a little hair mousse into her hand and finger-combed it through.

Bridget had never been so elated about applying makeup, either. Foundation, powder, mascara and a little brown eye shadow. Her favourite pink lipstick. She smiled at her reflection. Nope. She was no longer sick. She was well. Hurrah!

She padded quietly back out into the room. Mark had not budged; she smiled. She crouched down, pulled open the bureau—as Mark had thoughtfully unpacked her suitcase into the right hand side—and chose pale rose cotton trousers and a pretty pullover top with small rosebuds on it. Fetching her bra, panties and socks, she slipped back into the bathroom to dress. The trousers and top hung from her frame. A whole new wardrobe was in order.

As she stepped out she realised Mark had awakened and was sitting up. He fixed her with a curious look as she emerged. "You going somewhere?" he asked, clearly in jest.

"I'm all better," she announced, grabbing the white paper bag. "We don't need this anymore." She pitched it into the waste basket.

Clad only in his boxers, he at once rose from the bed and fetched it out. "No, Bridget. You _must_ finish the course of medicine."

She made a disbelieving sound, and snatched the bag back. "Why take medicine if you don't need it?"

"Antibiotic courses must be taken in full or you run the risk of the infection flaring back. Do you want to go through the worst of it again?"

"Of course not. I'm just—I'm better now. I can feel it."

He leveled a serious gaze at her. "Give me the bag, Bridget."

Her lip turned up in a devilish smile. "No."

"_Bridget._"

She held the sack close to her stomach. As he lunged to grab it, she turned away; she lost her balance as a result of his inertia and they both fell onto the bed, his arms about her waist, trying to get at the medicine. She curled around the bag into practically a foetal position. He tried very hard to dislodge it, but to no avail. "Bridget, give me that damn thing already," he said, working his hand between her knee and her elbow.

She declared that she would not.

After several more minutes of futile struggling, he stopped and sat up, as if he realised the true idiocy of what he was doing. "Fine. You win. I give up, you bloody brat." And he delivered a firm smack to her bottom through her trousers.

She turned her head to look at him, still smirking, and sat up also. In a flash he swiped the bag from her hand. Her mouth gaped in disbelief as he grinned in triumph.

"Chess helps one to think tactically," he said smugly. "Besides, I would have just called Hugh for more." He got up, put the bag into the top left drawer of the bureau, and sighed. "Seriously, Bridget, it's only Monday. This is going to be a very long week if we continue to have this argument every four hours."

She bit her bottom lip. "But the thing is… I just wanted you to see this weekend how much I'd grown and matured, and I don't feel either with you shooting stuff into my bum."

"_That_—" he began, pointing to the bed, referring to their little wrestling match, "—was not particularly mature. You have to be treated, regardless of the manner."

She released an impatient breath. "At least talk to Hugh and get me something oral. I've had enough of shots in the arse. And I'm ready for food again, so we can stop the—well. You know."

He closed his eyes, let out a breath. "You, my darling, are maddening. It so happens he's coming by to look at you again and to bring me some breakfast. You can ask him when he's here if there are other options."

She beamed at him. "Hurrah!" she said. "And maybe, just maybe, we spend the rest of our time having a proper mini-break and doing proper reunion-type things." She came close to him and traced her fingers along the waistband of his boxers as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Believe me," he said quietly, returning the embrace, "I'd like nothing more. I'm glad you're feeling better, love. I really am." He kissed the top of her head, then reached for his watch on the nightstand to see what time it was. "I should shower before Hugh arrives. Is there anything you think you might like to eat?"

"I could murder for a chocolate croissant," she said thoughtfully.

"Baby steps. The only food you've had since early Friday has been broth. Plus, no dairy, remember? So… how about some steel-cut oatmeal?"

That didn't actually sound half bad. She nodded. "With honey. Or brown sugar."

He nodded, reaching for the phone. "I'll order it for you."

"Can I have some coffee? I'll drink it black if I have to."

He smiled. "Sure. I'll ask for non-dairy whitener for you too, if you like." She nodded. She hated the stuff, but hated black coffee even more.

Once her order was placed, he went into the bathroom with his clothing for the day, and closed the door. She pulled the bed sheets over the pillows, looking forward to the possibility of a day where she didn't sleep from sunrise to sunset. She felt marvelous.

Before long there was a quiet knock on the door and a soft voice said, "Room service."

She pulled open the door and a young woman rolled in a tray. There was her oatmeal, honey and brown sugar on the side, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee—oh! Quite possible the most anticipated cup of coffee ever. She thanked the girl profusely and took her tray of food to the small table near the chair she'd occupied the day before.

She dumped whitener into the coffee, then a couple of sugars, stirred, and sipped. It wasn't a cappuccino at Coins, but it was pretty damn good. She sprinkled some brown sugar into the oatmeal, then picked up a spoonful. Heavenly, that steel-cut oatmeal. Not at all slimy as some oatmeal tended to be. Reminding herself of what Mark had said about having had very little actual solid food in the past few days, she fought the urge to shovel the entire bowl into her mouth at once.

There was a second knock. She rose to answer it, and as expected, it was Hugh. His eyes lit with surprise at seeing her. "Wow. You're looking much improved."

She smiled. "Thanks. I've been told I clean up pretty well. Come on in."

"Indeed," he quipped. "Where's Mark?"

"Probably finishing up shaving." She returned to her chair, indicating the vacant one. "Take a load off."

"Thanks." He set down his medic bag on the bureau by the door, then brought the paper sack he had (presumably containing breakfast) to the same small table Bridget had been eating in front of. "Oatmeal? You're up for that?"

"Oh, yes. I'm feeling better. And I'm starving." She smiled, lifting another spoonful to her mouth. After swallowing, she said, "Actually, Hugh, I was hoping you might get me something beside the injected antibiotic and the, um, capsules. I didn't throw up once yesterday."

"Is that so?" He reached into his own bag of food. "I'm really glad to hear it, but unfortunately, we're not changing horses midstream."

"So now we're riding?"

He laughed. "I mean once we've started a treatment course we need to follow it all the way through. If we change it, you might relapse as your body adjusts—the intramuscular injections are far more effective than the pills, in my opinion."

"But that's only a 'might', right? I'd really like to start with pills then. How soon can you have them here?"

He shook his head, spoke firmly. "You don't understand. I'm not changing your treatment. Besides, you may not yet be out of the woods, as far as vomiting goes."

"I am pretty sure I am," she said confidently.

Hugh smiled. "Let's wager on that, shall we? Ten quid that you puke before the end of the day."

"Are doctors supposed to do that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I'm doing it anyway."

"Okay, fine. You're on." She sipped on her coffee; a compromise was in order. "You aren't going to budge on the shots. I can see that. But now that I'm eating, do I really need the… other things?"

"Yes. You need to finish both. Besides, this bowl of oatmeal is your first real meal in almost three days. You still need to replace what you've been missing and losing, plus, see previous wager."

She sulked. "You are a little too good at delivering disappointing news."

He grinned toothily. "All part of the job."

"Humpf." She had another spoon of oatmeal. "Say," she began, realising that she and Hugh were alone. "About this 'Captain' thing—"

Just then the bathroom door swung open, and Mark exited, evidently fresh out of the shower—his dark hair in damp waves, cheek undoubtedly smoothly shaven—and dressed casually in a light knit top and trousers. "I thought I heard your voice out here, old man."

Hugh waved and muttered a 'hi' through a mouthful of pastry.

"Enjoying your oatmeal, darling?" He bent to kiss her head. He smelled magnificent.

"Mmm, yes." She paused to sip her coffee, then put another spoonful into her mouth.

"So Bridget and I have been talking about her treatment, and we've come to an agreement that she's to stay on course."

Bridget shot a look to Hugh, stunned, then looked to Mark. She had agreed to no such thing, but at Mark's pleased look, she could only smile, her mouth full.

"And has she agreed not to fight me on this any more?" Mark looked from Bridget back to his friend, incredulous.

"Yes, yes, absolutely," he said, his face open, honest, not a trace of deceit. Bridget decided that Hugh was evil incarnate. She chewed and swallowed.

"Oh, that pleases me to no end." Mark grabbed his pastry and coffee and sat on the corner of the bed. Her mouth involuntarily slipped into another smile. He did look inordinately happy.

"Have you taken your temperature today?" asked Hugh.

"I haven't! Ooo!" She hopped up for the white paper bag in the bureau, reached in for the thermometer. When she turned back to the men, they were sharing a look, and Hugh was smirking. She imagined they were recalling the conversation they'd had the previous morning about her while they thought she was asleep—one she was not supposed to know about.

"What?" she asked, feeling slightly paranoid nonetheless.

"Nothing. Here. Give that to me." She did, sitting in her chair. Mark shook the thermometer, and she opened her mouth, let it settle under her tongue.

He kept his eye on his wristwatch as he sipped his coffee, ate his pastry, before retrieving it from her mouth and examining the reading on the side. A smile bloomed across his face and he looked to her. "Bridget. Your fever has broken."

She clasped her hands together. "Really? _Really?!_"

"Really."

"Oh, hurrah!" Still smiling, she turned back to her oatmeal to eat another spoonful. As she chewed and swallowed again, she thought to ask, "What does that mean for me, exactly?"

"Well," Hugh said, "it means that the antibiotic is doing its job. All the sleep you've had has helped your body to fight off the infection as well. So I'd say continue what you've been doing."

Mark asked, "Can I tell her now?"

She knit her brows. "Tell me what?"

Hugh nodded.

Mark turned to Bridget, his eyes dancing. "Hugh says that we can start taking short walks outside now that the fever's broken."

Hugh nodded again. "You're much less likely to pick something up out here in the country, anyhow."

She smiled broadly. Maybe Hugh was not evil incarnate, after all. But one form of physical exertion invariably led her to think of another, one she'd been craving since before they'd arrived, and before she could stop to think the words were out of her mouth: "What about—?"

"'What about' what?" asked Hugh, smirking.

She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. Damn that devil. He was going to make her say it. "_You know_." She glanced briefly to Mark, who looked a bit embarrassed, but was looking to Hugh as well.

Hugh chuckled. "Well, presuming there's no hanging from the fixtures, or whips and chains involved—" Bridget raised an eyebrow. "—there shouldn't be a problem. So long as you don't overtax yourself, I mean."

"Oh, goody." She cast her eyes to Mark, who, to her delight, had a very subtle smile curling on his lips.

Hugh grinned, looking pointedly to his watch and standing. "I must be off. I have appointments starting at eight."

"Thanks again, mate." Mark stood to see him to the door. Before he exited, Hugh clapped his hand on Mark's shoulder and said something quietly that she couldn't quite hear or make out.

He took the seat Hugh had been occupying. "What'd he say?" she asked, overcome with curiosity.

He didn't answer right away, merely smiled and regarded her with an unblinking though loving gaze. At last, he said, "That you're definitely a keeper."

She smiled in return. How could she ever have doubted this man for a second?

But then she furrowed her brows, felt an uncomfortable swirling in her stomach. "Mark…" He had seen the expression on her face though and had anticipated her need, returning with the bucket in a flash.

And the oatmeal had seemed like such a first-class idea.

"It was good while it lasted," commented Bridget sadly as Mark took away the white bucket. When he returned he had a face cloth and without a word, he wiped off her mouth, helped her to stand, stripped her of her clothing and dressed her again in a nightgown.

"By the way, next time you see Hugh, tell him I owe him a tenner."

"Why?"

"Don't ask."

………

Mark called the front desk for laundry service again to take her nightgowns, soiled rose-coloured pants and other items in need of washing. Housekeeping came at about seven-forty-five to gather the laundry and switch out the linens. This time Bridget sat on his lap in one of the chairs, resting her cheek against his collarbone, his arms enfolding her. It was astounding how much energy vomiting took out of a person. With the blanket covering her knees, the girls—Red and her brunette friend once more—changed the linens.

"We're sorry, miss, that you're still feeling so unwell."

"Thank you," she replied, not opening her eyes. They'd at least called her 'miss' this time. She smiled.

She must have dozed off while waiting for them to finish, for it was Mark gently shaking her awake that made her realise it was time for her morning dose. She smiled wearily, tried not to sigh, took her position and took her doses with nary a sound.

Afterward, he stroked her bottom lovingly, then rose to wash up. She lay on the bed in a prostrate position, her eyes closed.

She was not ashamed to admit to herself that while still sensible of Mark's feelings and her supposed oath to Hugh not to object to further treatment, it was actually mostly the potential reward of sex that made her so compliant to her dosing.

"You look so tired," came Mark's voice, bringing her out of sleep, his hand stroking between her shoulder blades.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said quietly with a smile.

"I was going to see if you wanted to take that walk but I think you need to sleep after all."

"And you wake me to tell me this?"

He chuckled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Come back to bed with me."

She turned down the corner of the sheets. He made to slip in beside her when she clucked her tongue at him. "Too many clothes."

"Bridget. You need some more sleep."

"I know what I need."

"Sometimes I wonder." He smiled. "There will be time enough for _that_ when you've gotten your strength back." He settled in, pulled the covers over himself. She crawled up onto his chest and pouted.

"But Hugh said it was all right, and I was so good before…"

"You were, and I appreciate that you were, but I'm afraid for right now it's still no."

She rested her head upon his chest and he embraced her. She was going to say something in protest but sleep overcame her.

………

"How are you feeling?"

She had turned over while sleeping. Startled by the sound of his voice, with a jolt and a jerk upwards she turned to look at him as he read the paper at the table by the window.

"Huh?" she asked blearily.

"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry, I thought you were awake."

With a grunt she dropped back to the pillow.

And then she remembered the good news from Hugh, eyes popping open.

"Mark?" she called. "Come here."

She heard the rustle of the paper being folded and laid aside on the table, then felt the bed beside her sink with his weight. "Yes?"

One arm snaked out across his lap and around his waist. "I just want you here with me. That's all."

"I'm here." He climbed beneath the sheets and scooted down so that he could properly take her into his arms.

"Have I been asleep long?" she asked.

"A couple of hours."

"You've probably been so bored. I'm sorry."

"I self-entertain at a moment's notice, so don't apologise; you're not well."

"I think I'm up for a walk."

"Brilliant." She felt his hand at the back of her head, gently stroking her hair, and she lifted her face to him.

"I may even be up for more than a walk."

He chuckled. "You have a one track mind. I thought men were supposed to—"

She shut him up by lunging to kiss him; she was pleased to discover he responded most favourably when she parted her lips to invite a deeper kiss. He tightened his arms around her, then slipped his hands over her bottom. She knew by the movement of his fingers that he was searching for the bottom of her nightie. Triumph!

She then felt a strange vibration against her thigh. With a look of consternation she pulled away from him and directed her gaze towards his trousers. "What the _hell_…?"

"It's my mobile, Bridget." He rolled to the edge of the bed then stood, digging his hand in his pocket. He looked to it and squinted as if he couldn't identify the number on the incoming caller display, then flipped it open. She cursed whomever was on the line. "This is Mark Darcy," he said. "Who is this?" His brow smoothed and he smiled. "Oh! Hello. I didn't recognise your voice. … No. Of _course_ I don't mind you calling. … She's fine. She's resting." Mark shot her a brief look, smirked, then stood and walked to the window. "It's called leptospirosis, a bacterial infection she picked up in—"

He turned away as he continued to talk, and she was unable to hear him any longer. Who in bloody hell was he talking to? Shaz? Tom? Jude? Surely they would have all been in touch during the Thai prison debacle, would therefore have his number. Perhaps it was Rebecca? Or maybe it was Magda, filled with maternal concern.

She sensed the call winding down when he said, "Yes of course I'll let you know, but I don't anticipate there will be. … All right. Thanks. … I certainly will. Goodbye."

He folded the phone shut and set it on the table, returning to sit at her side in the bed. "So how are you feeling? Still up for that walk?" He sat there, eyes wide, expression eager, as he waited for her answer.

"Mark!" she said at last as she sat up, exasperated at being kept in suspense. "The _call!_ Who _was_ that?"

"Oh. Right." She caught him grinning—he was deliberately taking the piss out of her. "It was your father."

"My _father_?" She mentally retracted the curse. "Why did he call _you?_"

"Why _not_ me? I am your future husband," Mark said, feigning offense. "He said he tried your phone but it rang then went to voice mail—perhaps your battery is dead. Plus…" he added hesitantly, "he thought you might try to downplay what you have."

"Lie about it, in other words. Oh!" She was struck with another thought. "He didn't even ask to speak with me!" It wounded her more than she wanted to admit.

"I did tell him you were resting, so he said not to wake you," he explained. "But he told me to give you a kiss from him."

That placated her somewhat, and she smiled. "I was most definitely not resting when he called, though," she said in a sultry tone.

"Bridget," he said wearily. "The thought of giving you a kiss from your father has rather been a wet blanket for me. If you don't mind, I would like to go outside, enjoy the fresh air… and frankly, I've been dying to see the sunlight in your hair. I've almost forgotten what it looks like."

She smiled again, smacking a kiss upon his lips. If there had been a time when he didn't know the right thing to say, she could no longer recall it.

………

Mark had been right. Standing outside in the late morning under the tree by the lake was delightful and invigorating. She'd actually started to get a bit chilled in the shade, so he held his arms around her, watched as a family of four—mum, dad, and two sons—navigated the lake on a small rowboat, laughing. With the breeze blowing through her hair and the blue sky above it was difficult to imagine any place closer to paradise.

"I wish," she said, "that we could have a picnic out here. Blanket, bottle of wine, the works."

"We could. Maybe on Sunday, before we leave."

"Yes!" she said excitedly, turning her head to look up at him.

He continued staring pensively out over the water. "It's a date," he murmured, placing a kiss on her temple. He then pulled back, took her hand and they started the walk back to the main hall. They passed another couple heading towards the lake, and Bridget's eyes met fleetingly with the other woman's. She realised it was the woman she'd seen with the cigarette the day before, and the craving reared its ugly head once more; fighting it, she smiled to the woman with a certain camaraderie. After all, they were each holding the hand of their respective loves, and what was more important than that?

As they continued walking closer to the hotel, Mark asked, "How are you feeling? You didn't overdo it, did you?"

Still blissful, she beamed a smile at him. "Absolutely not."

Mark chuckled. "We should get back inside though. It's nearing noon."

Her happy disposition collapsed somewhat; for a brief span of time she'd forgotten all about her medication. "Right," she said resignedly.

He took her hands and pulled her close to him again to kiss her. "It was nice to get outside, though, wasn't it?" he whispered.

"It was fantastic. What a perfect summer day. Thank goodness for fevers breaking and marvelous, godlike doctor friends."

"And your hair looks positively golden out here."

She smiled, feeling slightly perkier again. She said, "I'd like to have some broth for lunch. Or even, mmm, tomato soup?"

"As long as it isn't made with cream," he reminded.

She blew air loudly out through her lips. "I'm so sick of being… well. Sick."

"I know, love. I know." He placed his arm around her shoulders as they walked back to the hotel.

Once in the room she slipped out of her shoes, out of her clothes and back into a clean nightgown, hating the clinical doctor's office feel of preparing for treatments. He took his seat, tablet already in hand, and waited for her. "We'll have to go for a walk again soon," he said.

"Yes." She hiked up her gown and laid down over his lap as she had grown quite used to doing.

"Still wanting some soup after?" he asked nonchalantly, as if he were not readying her dreaded treatment for her.

"I suppose that'd be nice." Happily, the nascent rumblings in her stomach had to do with hunger and not preparing to eject all contents. Things were slowly returning to normal; she never thought she'd look forward to the regular daily routine in her life. Planning her life in four hour chunks was getting quite tiresome.

To counteract the unpleasant sensation of the glutamine, her mind naturally turned to the happiest thoughts she could conjure. At the forefront was what had been interrupted when her father had called Mark's mobile. She was not particularly keen on finishing what they'd started earlier so soon after the glutamine, but she was suddenly of a mind to repay him for the attentions he'd lavished upon her. She was so happily considering her options that she didn't notice the time was up until he began shifting her over to lie prostrate near the edge of the bed, pulling her nightie down over her backside with a tender caress. He left as he always did to wash his hands.

"So," he announced upon returning several minutes later, "about lunch. Shall I ask what soups are available?"

She simply sat up and beckoned him closer with a single finger. Drawing his brows together, he stepped nearer to the bed and said, "I can hear you from there—"

He stopped short as she reached for the button on his trousers, then the zipper.

Sternly he said, "Bridget, we probably shouldn't so soon after—"

She interrupted him: "I know, and I'm not talking about that. But I'd like very much to make up for being a screaming terror last night. Properly. I'm well-rested and feeling better, and I think it's time I took care of _you_."

"_Bridget_—" he began, but as his trousers fell to the floor and her hand brushed against his abdomen, his only reply was to crawl onto the bed and cover her mouth with his again.

………

Once more she found herself watching him sleep, this time as he half-lolled upon her. He had the remnant of a smile playing upon his lips and his body was clearly more relaxed than it had been in some time. Honestly, it probably was the best, most restful sleep he'd had in days. She brushed a strand of hair back from his temple; his arm tightened about her waist and he snuggled more deeply into her chest.

And then her stomach made the most amazing sound, gurgling and yowling as if it were being held against its will in the deepest, darkest prison imaginable. She could see Mark's forehead crease as he drew his brows together, then slowly he lifted his head and blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he focused on her. She was sure she had turned the same colour as the cordovan leather chairs.

"What on earth…?" he began, a grin spreading over his face as he sat up. "Was that your—?"

"Shut up."

He laughed; he couldn't help himself. And though it was at her expense, it was lovely to see him so untroubled and free of stress. "I think it might be time to order that soup for you, darling Bridget."

Something about what he said and the way he said it, coupled with the smile on his face and the look in his eyes, caused her own eyes to fill with tears and she lunged forward to hold on to him like she might never let go. _This is it_, she told herself. _This is the man. Don't fuck it up again._

"Is something wrong?" he asked in an urgent tone, his arms returning the embrace.

"I'm fine, darling Mark," she said as she allowed the wetness to slide down her cheeks. "Never better."

………

There nestled amidst pastoral countryside and under Mark's tender ministrations, Bridget hadn't really given much thought to the outside world. When her mobile started to ring she almost didn't recognise the sound of it; she raised her head from the pillow and blinked with disorientation.

Mark, presently sound asleep (though how he could have slept through the mobile ringing and her tossing about to find said mobile was a mystery for the ages), must have at some point thoughtfully located her mobile and its charger, and had plugged it in to top off the battery. She found the phone on the floor between the nightstand and the bed, still attached to its lead. She flipped it open and said in a hushed tone, "Hello?"

"Bridge!" said a male voice. "Christ, I was beginning to think perhaps Mr. Darcy-comma-Esquire was secretly a homicidal serial killer!"

With a growing sense of horror she realised she'd told Shaz (and by extension, the Urban Family) she'd call when she got home but neglected to ring them back to advise of the extended stay. "Tom," she burbled, "I'm so sorry."

"So where in the name of arse are you?"

"Still at the hotel." She briefly explained why, which he expressed great relief at. "What time is it?" she asked, unable to locate Mark's wristwatch at a cursory glance.

"Ten-thirty-ish in the morning. I figured even surely _you_ were awake."

"Well, we were up earlier for my medicine but decided to go back to sleep." A strange, timeless sensation washed over her. "Er. What day is it?"

"Are you serious, Bridge? It's Wednesday."

"God," she sighed. "I feel like I've done nothing but sleep."

Tom laughed, then explained, "I was expecting another word there besides 'sleep', what with that tasty beau-hunk beside you."

As if on cue, Mark turned over, still slumbering quite deeply; she nearly winced to see he'd rolled over onto the duvet. His boxers had both ridden up (on the leg) and down (at the waist) and the sight of the curve of his backside was most frustratingly attractive, frustrating because they'd had yet to break into the Durex, and not for a lack of trying on her part.

"Hold on, Tom," she whispered, almost desperately. She disconnected the phone from the charger, rose from the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

"So are you feeling better?" Tom asked, as if sensing the location change.

"I am, almost perfect, no more throwing up, no more fever, and I can eat semi-solid foods and go for walks 'round the grounds. Though I'm still having to take my medicines. I just want to be finished."

"And are you having a good time?" he prodded, sounding eerily like a concerned parent until he added, "Wink, wink, nudge, nudge?"

Exasperated, she sighed again, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. "I'm having a great time, aside from the shots I have to take, the—oh, I won't go into it now—and the fact that my fiancé won't shag me."

From the sound he made Tom must have choked on his coffee. "_What?_"

"Oh, I am sure he wants to," she hastened to explain, "but he won't, not yet. I think he's figured out—though he'd never cop to it—that the only way to get me to finish up my treatment is to dangle sex out in front of me like a fucking carrot."

"I don't even want to tell you what sort of imagery that conjures up for me," Tom said drolly. "My little Bridgeline, a case study in conditioning."

"Shut up," she said lightly. "Besides. It isn't as if we have been lying side by side in bed, arms at sides, not touching. And no, you do not get details."

"Bridget. It pains me to think you would think I'd even ask," he said, feigning indignation.

"Spoken as if you have never done so," she said dryly.

"Darling," drawled Tom, "I can guarantee you my imagination is enough to satisfy me."

"And on that note I say: good day to you, Sir," she chuckled, doing her best imitation of a military man. "Give Shaz and Jude a call for me, and I'll call you all when I'm back in town. I promise."

"Will do. And I hope you get to pin that man down and ravish him sooner rather than later."

"That makes two of us. Bye."

"Bye," replied Tom.

She folded the phone shut.

"'That makes two of us' what?"

She turned to see that Mark, blearily rubbing his eyes, had pushed open the bathroom door and was standing at the entrance. "Good morning, again," she said with a smile, rising to give him a quick kiss.

"Good morning," he said, also smiling. Indicating the toilet, he said, "Do you mind…?"

"No, no." She stepped aside, and went to pass him for the other room.

"Bridget, you don't have to leave," Mark said with an amused grin on his face. "It's not like we have any secrets." He laughed at the undoubted change in her expression. "Don't look so mortified. I mean, if you must leave, that's okay too."

"No, I'm fine." The truth was she did feel a bit odd in there with him as he stood in front of the toilet, but he was right: they didn't have any secrets. She set the phone down on the side of the sink and brushed her hair in front of the mirror, though she couldn't help but avert her eyes from his reflection until she heard the toilet flush.

"Who called?" he asked, turning back to her.

"Just Tom. It seems I never told them we were staying through the week." She glanced down at her phone and noticed the voice mail icon was prominently lit; she was sure they'd all be Shaz, Tom and Jude, but thought she'd better check after they were through in the bathroom.

"Oops." He embraced her from behind, wrapping his arms across her chest, planting a kiss on her temple before engaging her eyes in the mirror.

"What?" she asked playfully after several minutes of his focused (though not uncomfortable) gaze.

"Nothing," he began quietly. "Just nice to see this again, is all."

She brought her hands up to his forearms, smiling, her eyes not leaving his. "Yeah."

"And still wondering what you meant by 'that makes two of us'."

Her mind raced, not wanting to admit her frustrations to the man who was essentially the root cause. Damn him and his excellent steel-trap memory. What could the two of them possibly be? Avid knitters? Fans of country-western music? After a beat she simply offered a lame, non-committal, "Well. You know Tom."

"I do," said Mark with a smirk. "And as I know Tom I can only speculate that his comment had something to do with me… and sex."

She did not need to answer verbally; the crimson of her face confirmed all to Mark. She cursed her traitorous skin as he chuckled.

"Come, love. Let's have a shower," he said as he bent to kiss her neck before adding softly in her ear, "I promise to wash you thoroughly."

When she checked her messages much, much later, she found her suspicions to be absolutely correct.

………


	5. Part 5

**In Sickness and…**

© by S. Faith '06-'07

Disclaimer: I do not own anything about this universe—I just like to take mini-breaks there.

* * *

Part 5 

2nd Friday

A couple of days later and a couple of hours post-dinner Bridget showered (including a date with a razor, hurrah!) and dressed in the blue-patterned nightgown. Mark had been good about getting laundry service on her night clothes—she didn't dare think what this week out in the country was costing him—and she found the blue had become her favourite. Perhaps it was because under the brightness of bathroom lights she was struck with how the cobalt of the floral print brought out the blue in her own eyes, and she had always thought her eyes were her prettiest feature.

She knew the routine well by now, and she climbed up onto the king-sized bed to receive her dosage for the evening. Mark ran his fingers gently over her bare bottom, over the miniscule raised dots of red that stood witness to every one of those damned injections. As he swabbed her with the alcohol pad, he said, "Well, this is it, my dear. Last one."

She turned rapidly to see if there was a telltale smirk upon his face indicating he was having a little joke at her expense, but he was deadly serious. She still had to be sure: "Please tell me you aren't joking."

"I would never be so foolish as to joke about as serious a matter as your bottom," he said solemnly.

Saints in heaven and God above! She actually squealed like a little girl at the thought of no more torture. The very notion of the freedom of living an entire day not punctuated by disagreeable medical interludes actually made her giddy.

"Let's get on with it, then!"

He blinked in surprise and she turned to face forward again, holding perfectly still. As the needle pierced her skin, he commented wryly, "I never thought I'd hear you say that in reference to this."

Wordless throughout the rest of it, she could only think of what she wanted very much to follow. And before she knew it he was lowering her nightgown, covering her with the bed sheets, rising to clean himself, then returning to her side as she allowed the glutamine to fully absorb into her system.

She tried to turn over but he pressed his hand firmly onto her shoulder. "No. You should stay prone just a little while longer." She nodded, resting her cheek on the pillow as he stroked her hair—she was just so anxious to kiss him, to hold him, to convince him she truly wouldn't break if they made love.

After several minutes she said, "I'm parched. Can you hand me the orange juice?"

"Certainly."

She raised herself up on her elbows enough to take the glass and swallow a great big cool mouthful, thought she must ask where they get their juice because it was the best she'd ever had. He took the empty glass and set it down on the nightstand, then brushed her hair back with his left hand, which lingered and traced a path down her back before he leaned forward and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, nuzzling a kiss into her ear.

Her eyes fluttered closed. To hell with the glutamine. In a flash she turned over, pushed herself up and pressed her mouth to his, her arms snaking around to his back and pulling him insistently to her. His response was automatic and telling as he shoved back the covers and placed his hands on her waist, down along her thighs and lifting her nightgown as he lowered her on to the pillow.

When her hands reached for his trousers, however, he ceased kissing her. "Oh Bridget, no," he murmured, pulling back. "That's not what I had in mind."

"It's what I want, though," she said breathlessly, opening her eyes and engaging his with her best pleading look. "I've been such a good girl, and… _God_, do I need you. I just can't stand it anymore."

She hadn't meant to sound so desperate, and regretted her lack of eloquence. As he rose from the bed, she sat up again, and he just stood there gazing upon her, his features masking any hint of the nature of his thoughts. She must have been a sight—hair mussed, not a stitch of makeup, nightgown out of place and bunched up to her waist and skin slightly pallid from being so bedridden.

He said nothing as he went to the bathroom and returned with something in his hand, which he dropped onto the nightstand, switching the small lamp on and flicking the floor lamp off. She looked to what he'd brought, then to him; a smile finally bloomed on his face as he slipped out of his trousers, boxers and shirt. He reached for the bottom of the nightie again in order to pull the whole thing up and over her head before he sat beside her once more.

"I can't get over the feeling that I could hurt you," he said tenderly as he reached to caress her shoulder. "You look so… delicate."

"I have a solution for that, then." She got up onto her knees and sat upon his lap, scooting herself forward until their chests nearly touched. He placed his hands upon her upper arms; an expression passed across his face indicating this might work to his satisfaction after all. She smiled, looking to him, watched his gaze reacquaint itself with her body in something other than a medical scenario before he leaned to kiss her.

She dodged him momentarily. "Perhaps you should…" she began, trailing off, turning her eyes to the bedside table. He smiled, nodding slightly. It seemed they both knew that once they started, they would not want to stop for anything.

Once that detail had been taken care of, he took his time, which was both delightful and maddening. It was as if he was trying to undo the repugnant things he'd had to do to her in the course of her treatment by now taking extra special care to caress her skin just so, to draw his fingers over her breasts and around to her hips and bottom, to kiss her exquisitely and slowly, leaving her softly panting and moaning and raking her nails across his back, begging him quietly to please, please already just—

He lavished a generous number of kisses upon her throat and jaw before returning attention to her mouth, and only then did the self-control he must have been exerting (so not to cause her physical distress, she guessed) start to slip away in the fierceness of that kiss.

In an effort to show him she would not in fact snap in half, she arched her back to push her chest even closer into his as she took his lip between her teeth. She felt him draw in a quick breath.

He understood quite clearly the message she was sending, and in very short order she felt the bed beneath her back and the connection she'd been craving, and she gasped, tossing her head back as he drove into her with unbridled enthusiasm.

She vowed never again to allow more than a couple of days to pass without it.

……… 2nd Saturday

After a sound sleep with her body snuggled against his all night long, Bridget opened her eyes to a particularly lovely summer morning, sun streaming in between the cracks in the drapes. During their stay she was waking earlier than she liked to think about, but it was something she had gotten used to with the prescription schedule she was on. She sat up in bed, raising her knees and smoothing the duvet down flat against them. She smiled to think of the night they'd just had, partly with a sense of complete satisfaction and partly in amusement, because after the sating of passions Mark insisted she slip back into her nightgown lest she get too cold or chilled.

She saw that Mark was talking quietly on the phone. He must have been up for a little while because he was already dressed. It was the rustling of bedclothes that caught his attention, and he turned and smiled to her before concluding with a "thank you", then hanging up.

He explained: "Just ordering breakfast. I hope I was correct in assuming you want oatmeal, orange juice and some coffee."

"Sounds lovely."

He came to sit beside her, tenderness abundant in his eyes and in the smile on his face. "How are you?"

"Better than ever." And she was looking forward to more making up for lost time.

For a moment he seemed embarrassed as he said, "I hope last night wasn't too much for you—"

"Nonsense," she interrupted gently, unable to keep the grin off of her face. "It was _fantastic_. Beyond compare."

He brought his hand to her face, his mouth curling into a smile as he gazed deeply into her eyes. "I'm glad. I had very much _missed_ you." But then he sighed, lowering his eyes again, dropping his hand. "Well." He rose and went to the bureau. "Let's get this over with before breakfast arrives."

She drew her brows together in puzzlement. "Get what over with?"

He merely turned to stare at her, his brow creasing slightly with confusion. "The glutamine…?"

"_What?!_" She sat up, her mouth gaping in horror. "You told me we were done!"

"With the shots, yes; I told you it was the last one right before I did it. But you have one more day of these." He held up the silver bubble pack.

She then held up her hands. "Oh, no way, _no way_. That is _not_ happening. I am _finished_."

"Bridget, you have to. It balances out what the antibiotic is doing."

"But I've finished that."

"It's still in your body, though, and it's a much bigger dose than regular antibiotics. Without it the antibiotic will wreak—"

"Mark," she said firmly, "I don't know how I can possibly describe to you how absolutely _awful_ they are. The indignity of—_you know_, then the burning, the terrible burning…"

"I know, but it's one more day. Three more capsules. Then you're home free."

"Absolutely not." She folded her arms in front of her chest.

"_Bridget_," he said dangerously. "You will finish your treatment."

"What are you going to do, make me?" she said mockingly. "I'm starting to think you might secretly enjoy tormenting me!"

Mark said nothing at first. His eyes became hooded and dark and he came to the bed with long purposeful strides, grasping her wrist firmly. "If you want to be treated like a child, _that_ can be arranged."

She narrowed her eyes in challenge. Neither blinked. "You wouldn't dare."

In a flash he pulled her across his lap—she didn't even remember him sitting down—and put one forearm across her back at the shoulders and the other at the small of her back, pressing down more firmly than was strictly necessary. "Mark!" she said. "Let me up!" Instinctively she tried to push herself out of, squirm away from, and roll off of his lap to get out from under his arms. With a sense of utter disbelief and embarrassment, she felt the arm across her lower back raise, and he used that hand to push up the lower hem of the nightgown. "Mark!" she cried again.

"Bridget," he said, exasperation evident in his voice, as he leaned over to likely reach for the glutamine on the nightstand. She took the opportunity to try to make an escape, and arced sideways. As she did so, he burst out with, "_Bridget!_" before his free hand hotly connected with her bare bottom, one, two, three times in quick succession. She yelped out in surprise.

His elbow came down again to firmly rest against her tailbone and she froze, her shock deepening. "You're having this treatment, Bridget, so hold still," he said. The coldly authoritative tone of his voice startled her more than what he had just done, but it wasn't anger, she realised; it was fear. "Don't make this any worse for either of us." She could feel him reaching over again.

She knew that struggling would indeed make it more unbearable so she went utterly still, trying to think of the beautiful night before instead of this horrible scene the morning after.

Both during the dosing process and afterwards, she said nothing. Uncharacteristically without speaking a word, he left her side and went into the bathroom, closing the door. She curled into a ball around her pillow, facing away from the edge of the bed, away from Mark. She felt the tears rise in her eyes at the humiliation not only of the nature of the delivery of the capsule, but at being punished like an unruly child for refusing so shortly after pointing out exactly what she hated about receiving this particular treatment. Was she not a woman of thirty-three, capable of making her own decisions? What right had he to force her to take the last three useless pills in this most degrading of manners? Did he truly have so little regard for her opinions and feelings?

Mark was still in the bathroom when there was a knock at the door moments later; a muffled voice announced, "Room service."

Mark could not hear for the closed bathroom door and the running water, and she couldn't get up just yet, but she did quickly pull herself together, wipe under her eyes, and turn to face the door to call out, "Come on in. I think it's open."

The door swung open and it was indeed one of the staff bringing in breakfast. Much to her surprise he was followed in by Hugh, whose smile dropped into a look of concern when he saw Bridget's undoubtedly reddened, tear-sodden eyes. He waited for the hotel worker to leave before he closed the door quietly behind the boy and asked in a soft voice, "Are you all right?" Immediately he put his hand to her forehead.

"I'm fine," she said. It didn't even sound convincing to her own ears.

"What's going on?" Hugh asked.

"She refused the glutamine," came Mark's voice, remote and flat. He had just emerged from the bathroom.

"And you what? Gave her a spanking?" joked Hugh as he turned to face his friend. When he saw that Mark's expression did not change, he added, "Oh my God, you _didn't_."

His voice was still reserved. "She was refusing to take the last three because we finished the antibiotic last night. She misunderstood and thought last night was the end of _all_ of it. And after what you said, about how devastating the effects of the doxycycline would be without it, I couldn't bear to think of her in such a state due to sheer stubbornness—" He broke off, bringing his fingers to his forehead. "I was frustrated, and afraid, and a little bit angry."

Hugh said nothing, simply turned back to Bridget. "Is that true?"

"Yes," she said sheepishly. "He did spank me."

Hugh fixed his eyes to hers with a very serious gaze. "No, I meant about refusing the treatment."

She was taken aback. "Yes, it's true."

Hugh sighed. It was the same sort of long-suffering sigh perfected by her mother and, as of late, Mark. "Bridget. When I said you had to complete the full course, I meant everything, both shots and suppositories. I didn't prescribe this because I'm sadistic and like to inflict this sort of thing on people. The glutamine helps the antibiotic do what it needs to do effectively, and with the high levels of the antibiotic, you'd be miserable without it. And since the last shot you had is still going strong in your system, will be for another twelve hours or so—" He took her hand tenderly. "—it's either two more rather nasty capsules, or a day of agony, vomiting, weakness, et cetera, with the possibility of the whole thing starting all over again."

She became slightly indignant. "You might have explained that sooner!" She looked from Hugh, to Mark (who was now pinching his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes), then back to Hugh. "I am not an infant. I _can_ understand big words and complex concepts, you know."

Hugh leaned in closer, said quietly, "He was afraid enough about your health. He didn't want to cause you to worry on top of it. I think he figured you'd just do it because he asked you to."

She felt terrible. She looked to her lap before she raised her eyes up again to Hugh, trying to make him understand without words. Of course he was trying to protect her, and of course she loved him and would do just about anything at his request—but he'd been so overprotective in the past it was easy to think he was blowing this out of proportion. Hugh nodded ever so slightly; he knew Mark well enough to get it.

"I see your breakfast has arrived," said Hugh, changing the subject abruptly. "Don't suppose you have an extra coffee on that tray for me, hm?"

"You can have mine," said Bridget, meeting Mark's eyes as he looked to her.

"Too kind, you're too kind," he said jovially. "I believe this orange juice and oatmeal is for you?" He raised the tray and brought it to her. She took it with a small smile of gratitude. "Brown sugar? Really? Not… boiled with a little salt?" he asked, his voice rising into a ridiculous falsetto and the worst Scottish brogue she'd ever heard. Bridget could not stop a laugh nor a face of disgust (at the thought of salted oatmeal) as she stirred it and began to eat.

Even Mark cracked an unwilling smile.

"So I have a little story for you, Bridget," said Hugh, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, sipping at the coffee. "Not only did I attend Cambridge for medicine, but I did my undergraduate studies there too. In an effort to become more well-rounded, I went gung-ho for the debate team. Great experience, loads of fun, and I met some mates I'm lucky to still call friends today." His eyes flicked to Mark so briefly Bridget thought she imagined it, but then reengaged hers very pointedly. "In the autumn of 1990—"

"Hugh, no," came Mark's strained voice.

Hugh sallied forth. "—there was a show that debuted that a great many of our members were _very_ excited about seeing, had been hearing about it for three years since it had debuted in the US, an updated version of a sixties classic. And shortly thereafter it was announced that come the spring we would be having a battle of words, the old versus the new. Our club split equally into two teams; one team dedicated to the philosophy and spirit of the… original series, shall we say, and the other dedicated to the next generation. We watched each episode as it aired, taking notes and having side discussions. Because of his gift for speaking eloquently and his ability to immerse himself in the subject matter, your fiancé there was voted to head the latter of the teams."

"Hugh, _please_," Mark said.

She had no idea, not the faintest glimmer of a clue, where he was going with this. But Mark's continued begging for Hugh not to continue piqued her interest. Surely being a debate team captain had very little to do with a television show—

The penny dropped as she recalled Mark's sci-fi reference earlier in the week. "Please tell me," she began incredulously and amusedly, her embarrassment all but forgotten, "that this highly-anticipated show was not about seeking out new life and new civilisations, and splitting infinitives where no one has split them before."

"I couldn't possibly do that," Hugh said, his eyes wide and innocent. "That would be lying."

She clamped her hands to her mouth in an effort to suppress an explosive peal of laughter, but it did no good. "Were there costumes? Please tell me there were costumes."

"No actual uniforms, but we did all buy burgundy, blue and ochre jumpers as well black trousers." Hugh thought some more. "And one of us had the idea to use brass thumb tacks and bits of eraser to make collar rank pips. Oh yeah. Mark thought of that."

She bit her lip, trying to reign in another snicker. It didn't work. She pointed at the silent, aggrieved-looking Mark. "Don't suppose he went whole hog and shaved all his hair off, eh?"

"He might have at least gone for a brush cut if not for me talking him out of it."

She laughed so hard her sides started to hurt. "Oh, God. There must be photographic evidence of this. Which I must see at your earliest possible convenience."

Hugh made to dig into his own pocket. "As a matter of fact—"

"I am glad you're both so amused," Mark said in a low tone.

"Just be glad we didn't take to calling you 'Picard'," Hugh said drolly. "The point of this tale is: first of all, to make _you_ smile—" He looked to Bridget. "—and secondly, to remind my good friend there what it's like to be humiliated in front of one's life partner and future spouse." He turned to Mark again. "She was only tolerating this terrible treatment because she wanted to please you. Um. Poor choice of words. She wanted to make you pleased and maybe even a little proud, bravely soldiering on with the only treatment option available, which, as I recall, did involve something she is mortally terrified of." He pantomimed an injection. "I can't imagine being in that position, thinking she's done only to find out she's not…" Hugh looked to her sympathetically. "Positively ego-shattering."

Bridget did not have the courage to speak up and tell Hugh that his first phrasing was actually closer to the truth—but she realised he was right all the same.

Patiently Mark said, turning to his friend and very much looking like the lawyer he was, "I don't mean to shoot down your nice little story, Hugh, but how can you possibly know her motives?"

Hugh became uncharacteristically serious, pausing to think before he spoke. "I know because when I told you we'd talked and she'd agreed to stay on course and not fight further treatment, they were little white lies. I didn't really expect her to play along, but the fact that she did told me everything I needed to know about her feelings for you—and why she did agree to continue."

Mark turned to look at Bridget, and she nodded as her eyes flooded again, confirming Hugh's tale of fibbing. His expression softened and he came nearer to the bed, holding out his hand. She clasped it in his own and squeezed, smiling as the tears welled in her eyes again.

"Do I need to leave for the apology portion of this conversation?" asked Hugh. "I don't want to be here if there's going to be kissing. Is there going to be kissing?"

Mark chuckled, smiled. "Perhaps after breakfast."

"Perhaps _not_," Bridget retorted, tugging firmly on his hand to pull him down to give her a kiss in the lips. When he pulled back, she said quietly, "I'm sorry I'm such a nightmare."

Mark stood up fully, picked up the tray and set it aside so that he could sit beside her and take her into his arms. "I'm sorry I did that." He stroked the hair at the nape of her neck. "You can indeed be maddening but you wouldn't be _you_ if you weren't. You'd be… _boring_. And I never want to be bored."

Her cheek was pressed against his chest; she felt her tears being wicked away by the cotton of his shirt. She then raised her face to his and kissed him quite thoroughly.

Her breakfast was likely stone cold by now but she cared not one bit.

"Uh," came Hugh's voice. "Feeling distinctly third-wheelish, here."

Bridget laughed as she pulled back, wiping under her eyes again, looking up to Mark, who was blushing rather furiously. "Sorry."

"No you're not," Mark murmured to her, grinning despite his embarrassment, patting her hair with his hand before rising from the bed again. "I never even asked you to what do we owe the honour of your presence," he said to Hugh.

"Well, I had business in Wellesbourne proper so I figured I'd stop by for one last check-up on the patient here. And I'd say she's quite recovered."

Bridget felt herself getting somewhat emotional. She'd grown accustomed to Hugh's visits and would miss seeing him almost every day.

"Let us take you to dinner tonight, before we leave."

"Can't. Have a prior engagement." He winked slyly at Bridget. Instantly she knew he was lying.

"Come and see us in London some time, then," said Bridget.

He pretended to think about it. "Well, I suppose I'll have to hand-cart my bill up to you, seeing as it will be too heavy for the post." He was grinning. "Plus I still need to collect on that bet." He looked from her to his friend and back to her again, then said, "Well. I should be off."

"Don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you enough," Bridget said as she stood, reaching her arms out to give him a friendly hug.

"Keep making that guy happy," he said quietly, returning the hug fully. As he pulled away, she felt him covertly press something into her hand. He waved and then left.

She turned towards the bed to unfold and examine what Hugh had given to her, and could not contain a squeal.

"_Bridget_…" Mark began.

She turned and held up the printed-out photo for him to see. "You were _very_ cute in your burgundy jumper and brass tack pips."

Mark paused thoughtfully before saying, "I am going to kill him."

"Oh, Mark," she said tenderly, the hint of a smile still playing on her lips, walking near to him. "If you like I can show you my scary pictures from age twelve with the terrible bobbed haircut and a mouth full of metal."

A reluctant smile spread across his face, and he took her into his arms. "I bet you were adorable."

"Ugh. Not even a little bit. I was trying desperately to be Madonna, and only with the wisdom of age can I see I failed miserably."

The smile transformed into a toothy grin. "I can't wait to see."

"Oh, God. I'm sorry I offered now." She leaned forward and buried her face in his chest with shame, then turned her face to rest against his pec, her arms encircling him.

"Mark?" she asked after a short, comfortable silence.

"Yes?" he murmured.

"Can we have a do-over?"

"What?"

She pulled back to meet his eyes. "A morning-after do-over?"

He laughed, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Anything you want. I'll even order a second breakfast if you like. Your oatmeal looks rather like wall spackle, and my French toast is now suitable for sanding with."

It felt so good to have him close, to hear him laughing, making silly jokes; she scolded herself for nearly fucking things up yet again. The self-censure was short-lived though, because it was that very moment, it really struck her: aside from two remaining treatments, needing to rebuild her physical stamina, and getting back on a more solid diet, she was all better. Cured. Totally well. They were in a little corner of paradise, secluded, with a great big bed, soft linens (she pushed back thoughts of how many hours she'd spent on them whilst sick) and on-demand food delivery. And now there were no obstacles but for the finite number of Durex in the box in her toiletry bag, courtesy of Shazzer. "I take it back," she said, her fingertips tracing down the valley of his spine through his light cotton shirt. "Instead I want to rewind to sometime last night."

"That too can be arranged."

The low, guttural tone of his voice surprised her; the level of ferocity with which he covered her mouth with his own surprised her more.

………

"Marrrrrrrvelous," she purred.

"Hm?" he murmured drowsily, snuggled up against her, tracing his fingers along her abdomen.

"This whole 'shagging when I feel like it' business. I'd kind of forgotten how nice it is."

He laughed lightly. "All that's left is to get some meat back on your bones." The pads of his fingers traced to her hipbone, causing her to shiver. Concerned, he added, "Are you cold?"

"That was not from cold, my dear," she said, turning over to kiss him again.

He was tempted, clearly tempted, but he pulled away gently. "Bridget. As much as I am enjoying whittling away the hours with you like this, we should have something to eat, or I may just pass out from low blood sugar." He was smiling. "Would you like to eat in or perhaps head down to the café?"

"There's a café?" It saddened her how little she had actually seen of the hotel.

"Oh yes. And it's barely ten A.M."

"But I'm nowhere near ready."

"It'll take you no time at all. However… I'm not helping any." He threw back the covers and pushed himself away from her. "Come on, love." He stood and began dressing himself again.

She could not help but pout.

He was right though. It took her fewer than ten minutes to dress in a pair of denims (slightly baggy in the bum) and a short-sleeved top, pat her face with powder and brush the snarls out of her hair. "You look great," assured Mark as she emerged from the bathroom.

"You're just saying that because you're hungry," she said, slipping into her trainers.

"And because I want to get you back into bed later," he quipped.

She smiled smugly.

………

After breakfast, take two, Mark suggested a short walk before returning to the room for the penultimate pill, which she agreed to. The weather was gorgeous and it felt heavenly to have the sun on her skin. As much as she knew she shouldn't, she fantasised about losing track of time and returning late for the glutamine. She also knew that Mark would never let that happen.

She threaded her arm through his elbow and they set off for their walk, taking a different route than usual. To her surprise, she found them passing the salon and spa. "I forgot about that," she murmured, then looked up to him. "What do you think about my hair?"

"It's… your hair," he said, rather obviously. "I like it regardless of what you do with it."

She huffed out a breath. "I meant, do you think I should let it grow out a little more, or go shorter?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I don't know."

"You're no help whatsoever."

"This is a question for your girlfriends, or Tom. I don't know the first thing about women's hairstyles."

"Did you like it longer?" she pressed.

"I did," he admitted. She smiled. "But shorter is pretty too."

"Gah. You're no help at all," she grumbled.

He said nothing more as they proceeded back to the room, right on schedule.

………

"I'm going to hate for this to end, you know."

"I'm presuming you don't mean the glutamine."

"Ha, ha." She was snuggled up close to his chest post-treatment, and she tightened her embrace for a moment. "I meant all of this time with your undivided attention. It really spoils a girl."

She felt a light kiss being pressed into her hair. "I intend on continuing that attention to the best of my ability," he said quietly. "Those weeks without you were miserable."

"I was pretty miserable too."

They each went quiet for a long stretch. She recalled all the stupid things she'd thought and said the night she'd walked out on him, cursed Tom inwardly for ridiculously assigning an alternate meaning to 'I won't dignify that question with an answer'. She didn't feel as if she could ever apologise enough to Mark, who could at most only be blamed for being clueless about her insecurities at the time.

"I should have called you," he admitted, breaking the silence. "I don't know why I didn't. Why I stayed away. I guess I thought I had to give you your space."

"I knew I'd made a mistake the moment I left," she said. "I think I must have eaten my weight in Ben & Jerry's." After a moment, she added, "I wish you had called."

"I wish you'd come back," he said softly.

"Ah," she said, rearing up to meet his eyes, her own twinkling. "But I did."

Finally he smiled. "That's true. And better late than not at all."

She chuckled. "I'll remind you of that the next time I don't show up on time to the cinema."

………

Alone in the bed, Bridget lifted her head from her pillow, rousing from a sleep she didn't recall slipping into. Instinctively she called out Mark's name but he did not answer. She kicked back the covers and stood, noticed a note on her bedside.

_Darling B.,_  
_I have just gone to run an errand, and didn't want to wake you. Should be back very soon._  
_Love,_  
_M._

She couldn't help but grin. As her eyes turned to the surprisingly robust-looking roses, she had grown to adore his notion of 'errand'. She stood and pulled the covers into place (nowhere near as neatly as Red and her mate), stripped out of her nightgown, folded it up and went to put her clothes back on… then thought better of it, slipping back under the sheets with an evil grin.

She heard the door open, then softly close, and she stifled a giggle as she heard the note picked up and crumpled.

The bed lowered with his weight. "Bridget? Are you awake?"

She pushed the duvet away from her face. "I am."

"Why are you still—" He then spied her bare shoulders, could not hide the smirk that passed over his features. "Ah."

"You joining me?" she asked.

"You mean you don't want to see what I've brought back with me?"

"Oooh!" She sat up, the duvet held up close to her chest. He had a bag from the same boutique he'd bought her nightgowns from in Stratford, and he handed it to her.

"Go ahead and open it."

She pulled the top of the bag open and pulled out what felt like yard after yard of fabric, really soft, almost like silk. She held it up with both hands, let the bottom drop to the floor. It was a dress, cream-coloured with a floaty, transparent fabric layer over it, long (probably at least calf-length), flared out from the waist, and spaghetti-strapped, with three moonstone-like beads on each strap. The floaty layer appeared to have had pale green leaves watercolour-painted upon the fabric, scattered sparsely at the top but becoming more densely packed at the lower hem. It was stunning and glamourous and she could not find the words to express how she felt about such a thoughtful and generous gift.

"I didn't attempt to buy you shoes. I have no idea what size—" Interrupting him, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. When she sat back, he continued with a proud grin, "I guess you like it?"

She beamed. "I love it." She held the dress to her.

"I saw it the last time I was there and thought you might like to have something nice to wear to dinner."

"Dinner?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner tonight." He took it back from her to hang it in the closet before pulling his shirt up over his head, unfastening then removing his trousers and boxers, folding then placing them upon the bureau. "I'm hoping we can make it all the way through dessert this time."

She smiled, then sighed. "I truly don't deserve you."

"Yes you do. Now be quiet and move over." He kissed her again.

………

"I feel like we should make a speech."

Mark held out the very last of the suppositories in front of her, and it dawned on her that she hadn't actually seen one out of its packaging yet. Pretty inane looking for the burning hell it caused. "I'm good at speeches. Okay." He cleared his throat; she imagined he was grinning, but from her position she could not tell. "Well, here we are, the last of the glutamine capsules about to be, um, administered."

"I thought you said you were _good_ at speeches."

He continued unperturbed: "It's been a rough week on both of us for very different reasons, but all things considered, aside from a couple of episodes which drove me to despair—" He patted her bottom lovingly. "—Bridget has been a real trouper and I'm very proud of her for what she's had to endure. Let's hope that neither of us ever have to deal with leptospirosis again."

"Hear, hear. I'd applaud if I could. Now let's get this over and done with."

It was really too bad they couldn't have been shagging all along, she pondered from her prone position, because she realised the fresher the flashback, the faster the time seemed to have passed. Before she knew it, he was leaving her side to utilise the bathroom sink. When he returned several minutes later, he had a very odd smile on his face. "Tell me, Bridget. What would you think about to get through that?"

She had no idea why she should blush as strongly as she did, considering he had been her rather active and willing partner. He put his arm about her shoulders as she buried her face into a pillow.

"As I suspected." He chuckled.

She turned her head to look at him. "You have a dirty mind," she said archly.

"I'd show you just how dirty if you didn't need to get up and get dressed."

She furrowed her brows. "Mark, it's only just after four. A bit early for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

"Who said anything about dinner just yet?"

She raised a brow. "What have you got planned?"

He merely smirked.

She jumped off of the bed to search for her clothing.

………

"I'm surprised you didn't blindfold me."

"Hush, we're almost there," he said, patting the hand on his elbow.

She half-expected to be taken to the car and driven to Wellesbourne, but they were heading in the opposite direction and in fact, it appeared they weren't leaving the grounds at all. The suspense was killing her and she kept her eyes on the horizon, trying to determine their destination.

And then they stopped in front of the salon and spa, and she hit herself hard on the forehead. The salon and spa! She tightened her grip and heard him start to laugh. She looked up to him to inquire why he was laughing and he said, "I didn't know a grown woman could make that sort of sound. I don't think I've actually ever heard a 'squee' before."

"Oh, quiet," she said with a chuckle, embracing him. "This is going to be lovely."

"You don't even know what I've arranged for you."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "It will be heavenly."

"Come, dear," he said, pulling away from her. "You're going to be late, and that would be appalling, considering you're standing right here."

Turned out that Mark had been inspired by her existential hair quandary to book her for a massage, a hair appointment and a manicure/pedicure. As she checked in at the front desk, he said, "Be sure to explain to your masseuse that you are not in fact a closet heroin junkie," as he covertly placed his hand upon her bottom.

"What should I do with my hair, though?"

"The stylist used to work in one of London's top salons." When Mark said the name of the salon, her eyes went wide. "I take it to mean you might trust his opinion."

She embraced him one last time before he departed. "I love you."

She felt him chuckle. "Go on. I'll see you in a few hours."

The masseuse worked a magnificent tea rose-scented aloe and vitamin E balm into her back, arse and thighs; the aching calves and back of the previous weekend were but a faded memory. The stylist did a remarkable job of trimming her hair with the net effect that it actually appeared to be longer. The manicurist gave her a lovely French-style manicure and pedicure, which she thought looked kind of silly on her toes, but it was the sort of thing it felt marvelous to be treated with. All the while she wondered what Mark was doing while she was being pampered within an inch of her life. She hoped he was doing something equally wonderful for himself.

When she was finished, she found him waiting for her at the front door. He looked subtly different but she couldn't quite place it. He explained: "I had my hair and sideburns trimmed before I went to swim a few laps then sit in a steam room." Then he smiled. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." She didn't know why she blushed, but she did. "What do you think of the hair?" She held her hands up to frame her face.

He clearly considered his words before he said, "It looks very nice."

She narrowed her eyes. "You don't see a difference, do you?"

He looked sheepish. "It does look slightly… tamer." She raised an eyebrow. "Before I get myself in deeper trouble, let's go get ready for dinner."

………

Bridget had forgotten how ornate and beautiful the dining room was. She had also forgotten how incredibly bright her ring was even by the dimmest of illumination, how handsome Mark looked dressed in one of his finest suits, and how much his eyes could say to her even when he was silent. She loved that they could sit and hold hands over the table without not needing to speak, feeling as comfortable as anything. When all was said and done, she realised in spite of—or, more accurately, _because_ of—her illness, they had reconnected most successfully.

He released her hand as the waiter brought dinner to the table. She had been somewhat wary in his suggestion for their main course, grilled chicken breast with a pomegranate sauce, but as she cut a piece off and brought it to her mouth, she found it to be delightfully and sweetly tangy, not too heavy.

The sommelier brought over a bottle swaddled in a white cloth, then poured into each of their flutes. He held his flute up, suggesting she ought to raise hers as well.

"I would have ordered some champagne," he said confidentially, "but I wasn't certain if you should have alcohol just yet. So sparkling apple juice it is." She very nearly chuckled. "It in no way diminishes my toast: to new beginnings, fresh starts, and unequivocal, unconditional love."

With a smile, she touched the rim of her glass to his, and drank. He was exceptionally good at making speeches after all, she thought, willing herself not to tear up from utter joy.

After draining her glass, she said quietly, reaching for his hand again and squeezing gently, "If we can get through a traumatic tropical disease, I think we can get through anything."

He smiled. "Misunderstandings over junior legal partners will be a breeze, comparatively speaking."

"So will exes in whom I have absolutely no remaining interest whatsoever." After a pause she added in a more thoughtful tone, "How could I when I have everything I could ever want in you?"

His eyes went very soft and slightly glossy, and he blinked thoughtfully. "Bridget," he said in an uncertain tone, as if he could not quite trust his voice, "I also forgot to check when you could have dairy again." She furrowed her brow at this apparent non sequitur, but then he continued, "So if you wouldn't mind skipping the dessert tray after all…"

She looked up to him through her lashes, feeling suddenly demure. "Not at all."

They finished their dinner and, threading her arm through his elbow once more, they exited the dining hall and headed for the room. She loved the way the dress sheathed her as if made specially for her, the way it swirled airily about her calves. She imagined they must have looked stunning together—that had been his word for her that evening, 'stunning'—with the dashingly handsome figure he cut in his suit. She was lost in her thoughts and they were nearly to their suite when he surprised her by taking her into his arms and kissing her passionately, pressing her against the wall just outside the door. She lost herself in it for many moments until she heard a slightly familiar voice say from what seemed to be very far away, "Glad to see you're feeling better, miss."

Bridget pushed him back and stepped forward to see the retreating figure of Red, who looked back over her shoulder with a knowing (even slightly envious) smile. Bridget flushed deep crimson, but could not help chuckling. Mark looked chagrinned but undeterred, and reached for her again when Red disappeared into the neighbouring room with a stack of towels.

"Mark," she said, amused at his impatience, as if they hadn't only just made love earlier that day. "The key. Opens the door. Once we're in we're less than twenty steps from the bed."

Close to her ear, he said in a very smoky tone, "It's like it's all catching up with me at once," before nibbling tenderly at her lobe and slipping his hand around to gently grab her backside. Her lids drooped and she came very close to forgetting where she was again, but the door to the suite beside them opened once more. This time she jumped back from him, fixing him with a severe look. Truth be told, she found it quite exciting, but did not want to encourage this newfound impulse to snog her ardently in the hallway of a very posh hotel.

"Mark. Give me the key," she commanded, holding out her hand.

He pursed his lips and pulled out the key, but opened the door on his own and barred her from entering.

"Mark," she said with a laugh. "I don't understand you someti—"

She was interrupted by him swiftly picking her up off of her feet and carrying her into the room, kicking the door behind him so hard that it banged shut. She could not say anything in response or protest (not that she did protest), because he had resumed his hungry kiss. He headed directly for the bed, setting her on her feet just long enough to lift her dress to her waist, then pushed her to sit.

It was a good thing that Bridget had stored quite a few packets of Durex in the drawer of the bedside table, because if they hadn't been quite so close they might have been forgotten altogether in his haste.

Although she barely had time to consider it given how quickly she fell into the throes of desire, she had also quite forgotten how determined he could be about having her.

……… 2nd Sunday

Mark's watch on the bedside table read twelve noon. Mark was still fast asleep, as well he should be, given the spirited marathon he had embarked upon the previous evening. Still, it felt good to sleep until waking naturally and not at the beck and call of a medication schedule.

Bridget turned over to face Mark. He was definitely, solidly, out like a light. She rested her head back down on her folded elbow, content to watch his chest rise and fall slowly and evenly with the peace of slumber before drifting off into her own thoughts. It was their last day, and with great sadness she realised they would be leaving this fantastic place; tomorrow would be back to reality. While she would be thrilled to see her friends again, it also meant endless pestering by her mother, returning to work and dealing with her insane boss—not to mention going home to the flat that she resided in by herself. Mark would undoubtedly be inundated with work upon his return. She had previously been very content with seeing him several times a week, but after their retreat that would not seem nearly satisfying enough; she had gotten very used to sleeping next to Mark every night and waking beside him every morning.

"Is something wrong?" came Mark's voice.

She focused upon him again to see he was now awake, and his concern was apparent. She smiled to try to ease his worry, but he clearly wasn't buying it. She sighed and said, "I'm just going to miss seeing so much of you."

"Despite the obvious, this time with you has been exactly what I needed." He reached out a hand to cup her face. "It will be difficult to go back to London, back to our lives." He opened his arms and that was all the invitation she needed to snuggle up to him.

"Do we have to, though?"

"Go back to our lives?" he asked with a light laugh. "I'm afraid so, darling."

"But we don't have to go back to the way things were." Suddenly inspired, she asked, pushing herself up to look into his eyes, "Why don't we live together?" He opened his mouth to speak but she continued before he could object, "Hear me out. We've already proven we can live together here without driving each other crazy. Well. Not _completely_ crazy, anyway."

He smiled, then began to chuckle.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked, hurt. "Is the thought of living with me that funny?"

"Not remotely so. You've just stolen my thunder from me once more."

"Oh." She smirked, thinking back to when she'd nearly sabotaged his proposal. "Whoops. Sorry." She leaned forward to kiss him. "It is a good idea though."

"Smashing. Best idea you've had yet."

She kissed him again.

"Did you still want your picnic?" he asked between kisses.

"Mmm, it's a thought," she said. "It's our last day here and we won't have another chance. Mmm." She could not help repeating herself; he had trailed his fingers along her collarbone and down over one breast. "Then again," she continued after several moments of not unoccupied silence, "we can have a picnic any old time."

_The end._

………

Notes:

Paramount Walton Hall Hotel is where I imagine Mark has taken Bridget (links are, unfortunately, not allowed). It is truly gorgeous there. I can hardly believe I stayed here for a week with friends in 1994—I had no idea it was quite so posh.

One of the things that Bridget doesn't have, thank goodness, is dengue fever (either hemorrhagic or not). So yes, as Dr. Hugh said, it could have been much worse.

For the Celsius impaired like myself: 38°C 100°F, a respectable but not fatal fever.

"Never try to teach a pig to sing," wrote Robert Heinlein, "because it wastes your time and annoys the pig."

Star Trek: TNG debuted on 26 September 1990 in the UK, according to IMDB.

Anyone who can figure out the play-on-words on the good doctor's name gets a gold star.


End file.
